Memento Mori
by Sukkar
Summary: These are the 89th annual Hunger Games, and hopefully, you'll find a tribute worth your time. Fasten your seat belts and get ready for a massacre delivered straight to your living room. Failed Rebellion AU - updates weekends. Bloodbath now uploaded - the Games have begun!
1. Prologue

Note:

 _Hello and welcome to the 89_ _th_ _annual Hunger Games! That's not an arbitrarily chosen number – we're verging off-timeline, into an AU from roughly halfway through Mockingjay. The Mockingjay Rebellion was unsuccessful. Panem has changed, but the crucial skeleton that we recognize, the Games themselves, has been reinstated._

 _You are the spectator – these Games are the spectacle. The same way a Capitolite would get to know the tributes fighting for their amusement, so you will become acquainted with this year's cast. Your influence will help to keep your favorites alive and your feedback will shape the progression of the narrative._

 _If this 8,000 word introduction is intimidating, feel free to skip ahead to read the twenty-two character introductions. There's also a brief recap of who's who in Statice's chapter (District 11) so that's a good starting point. The purpose of this (updated, expanded) prologue is to better introduce the alternate-universe and its main characters in the Capitol._

 _That's because in the coming months, I'll be making an announcement about a future SYOT-model sequel, taking place in this universe, and it's important to me that you know what you're signing up for. Also, the Capitol-b-plot stays important throughout the story._

x

Her regime expires when  
the moon meets the sun  
on the horizon we can't see  
because the sycamore trees

next door block our view.  
Our world droops in anticipation.  
We would like to exchange  
the unkind for the kind but

we can't find the strength  
to oust the inevitable. Instead  
we joke about politics and watch  
our neighbors arm themselves.

'Empress', Sally Van Doren

x

Margaret Lancaster, The Capitol (29th Hunger Games)

The smoke spiraling on the room's air currents overhead, in theory, could have gotten them into a lot of trouble, but it was _university_ and nobody - not even the neighbors - really cared. This late in the Games, three weeks in and with the finale well in sight, what else was there to do but watch and smoke?

Certainly not her economics problem set, half-finished on the elegant wooden desk situated by the window.

Margaret was distracted, briefly, from the onscreen proceedings by the orange sunset over the neon-bright spires of the Capitol.

"Look, Annia," she said. "Isn't it beautiful? I keep waiting for it to stop being beautiful, but every evening, the colors surprise me again. Are you looking?"

Annia Neves was watching the screen before them, an abandoned notepad at her side.

"I can't miss this," she protested, extinguishing the burning roll of paper in her hand with a careless flick of her wrist. "My paper."

"Doesn't watching so closely get boring after a while?" Margaret argued. "I mean, the sun's setting there, too. You could write about that. Like, the significance of the time parallel in the arena with Capitol time, even when it's in a different part of the country. For immersion, or something. Or for betting. How do they make that work?"

"I can't do that," Annia replied with a long sigh. "I'd have to specify my major a lot further, pass a lot of security checks, and probably actually land a job on the Games before I'd lay eyes on a document that explained how they did it. If I had to guess, I'd say it's in post-production - even if it was, y'know, in this zone, they don't air it live. But they want to keep up the illusion."

"I think they're going about the Games wrong," Margaret announced.

Annia shushed her.

"Don't talk like that. You're already in trouble just for associating with Henry. If his dad didn't keep bailing him out every time they got him on sedition, he'd be tongueless by now."

"And wouldn't that be a shame," she shot back with a grin. "He's so good with it."

"You're going to let a boy ruin your future," Annia said reproachfully.

"Henry has a good heart. He's _stupid,_ though. He could ruin my future, or I could make his. We'll see if he survives to graduation."

Onscreen, someone screamed, attracting both young women's attention. A tall redheaded woman sustained a deep gash to her arm as a muttation wolf closed in on her. The maybe-simulated sunset was beautiful on the snow, Margaret mused. Hard to imagine how they'd fake something that perfect, that lovely.

Of course, there was blood on it, now.

There had been so many slow, cold deaths that year. It was sad to watch, for the most part - but those who survived the elements were tough, and had banded together into little packs, like dogs.

"Harine from District Nine," Annia said aloud, watching the girl struggle. "She's been very kind, taking in her district parner, lost two toes giving up the socks under her boots to keep his hands warm… he died anyway, but it was very touching."

"Are you betting on her?"

"Ugh, don't remind me. My credits are on Woof, from Eight - it seemed like such a good idea when he was stitching hides together, that was brilliant, something only an Eight would think to do. Tailoring as a last resort in a crisis. But he's almost out of firewood, and the hunters are well stocked."

"I'm not betting. I always lose," Margaret laughed. "You can't predict these things, Annia. One of Henry's developer friends is trying to build an algorithm for it, and he's going broke in beta."

"It's an assignment," Annia sighed. "We place fifty credits at the beginning, watch it play out, and write reflections twice a week. At the end we'll have access to everyone's reflections to hammer out a unified theory of audience reaction for the final."

"Anyone bet on one of the hunters? That seems the easy route."

"Everyone else thought so too - for the assignment, at least, no one wants to admit they're not backing an underdog. Though I'm sure half of them have well more than fifty credits riding on Milo from Two or Purity from One."

Margaret sighed. The sun was slowly disappearing beyond the horizon.

"Well, when you're the next Thilo Flynn someday, I bet you'll tell a better story," she told Annia, taking a deep drag of the neglected cigarette smoldering in her hand.

"Sedition," Annia cautioned her friend, though a cheeky smile lurked behind her faux-concern.

"What's seditious about saying you'd be a better Head Gamemaker than him?" Margaret argued. "It'd be one thing if it wasn't true. But it's basically the same thing as saying that you'd do better than some starving District Twelve brat at… running a cash register."

Despite her friend's best efforts, Margaret was gratified to see she'd elicited a giggle from the put-together Annia, still in her beautiful, simple uniform from work - a crisp white button down and a fitted pencil skirt embroidered lavishly with golden images of birds and fish, though her heels were kicked off in the corner.

"I'm not sure what's worse - likening Head Gamemaker Flynn to a _Twelve_ or saying I'd do his job better than him."

"You read the paper, you know he's done for - declining ratings since this arena. No one's happy all those poor children just froze to death without even a proper shot at things. He's pulling out all the stops, but the Games have been slumping for years," Margaret explained. "Everyone says so."

" _Henry_ says so."

"You _really_ don't like Henry!" she exclaimed. "Associating with a district-lover doesn't make _me_ one. He's rich, he'll clean up well with some coaching, and I like his last name."

"It's just, you spend so much time with him, and you know he'll never live up to what _you_ want to be. You're so much _better_ than him," Annia sighed. "It's so… unfair, that it's so hard to get a foot in the door on merit unless you're a rich man or married to one."

"We'll do it, though," Margaret insisted. "Annia, I know it seems far away, and it may be, but you and me… we're what the country needs. We can… we can change things. I think you'd make a great Gamemaker, but there's other kinds of media, other ways of doing it…"

"Other than the Games," Annia continued, gazing up over the massive television screen, at something beyond the crimson blood on the glowing white snow as Harine from District 9 fought for her life.

"If politicians keep dropping like Twelves in the bloodbath, at least my path will be relatively clear," Margaret laughed. "Can I say that?"

"You're not wrong, Margaret," Annia replied sadly.

They sat in silence for a second. Onscreen, Harine screamed as a second overgrown wolf joined the first.

"President Lancaster, someday."

"President Templesmith, if Henry has his way," Margaret sighed.

"He'll catch the flu a day or two after you take office and you'll wake up one morning a free woman by your maiden name," Annia suggested. "I'm told that's how it works these days."

"It shouldn't," Margaret mused. "It shouldn't be like this, if we're really so much more civilized than… well, that."

She gestured at the screen, where Harine made a last-ditch attempt to menace the mutt wolves away with the sickle she'd carried since the Cornucopia.

"We could always be less," Annia agreed.

"Of course."

"We'll be more together, though."

Onscreen, Harine stumbled on an icy patch of ground. The wolf mutts seized the opening, the smaller of the two darting in and ripping at her fleecy outer layer jacket. Unsatisfied with the taste of the garments, it took her pale face, blistered by the cold wind -

"Together," Margaret repeated, taking Annia's hand.

Harine's cannon sounded.

They didn't look up to watch.

x

Margaret Templesmith, The Capitol (74th Hunger Games)

"Well, of course you can stay with us," Margaret reassured her friend, drawing her in from the rain outside. "Henry and I were just sitting down for the Games. We can get you set up in the guest room right away."

"Dear?" Henry called from the living room. "Claudius says we have to watch this one - there's going to be a big announcement. You didn't hear that from me."

"Annia didn't hear it either," Margaret called back quickly. "She'll be with us for a little while."

"I don't want to impose," Annia insisted, though she looked beyond bedraggled, her makeup smeared down her satiny cheeks, her braided updo soaked through, perhaps beyond repair.

"Nonsense. My door is always open for an old friend."

"It won't put Henry out?"

"He'll barely notice. He's been getting into the Games more lately, real man of the people since he finally got appointed general. Not to say it didn't happen fast enough. Things happen at their own pace," she added quickly, glancing around with palpable nervousness.

Hopefully Annia could tell - they were being listened to, at the very least. Watched. Always.

That was the price of Henry's promotions. Beyond the price in credits and dignity, bowing and scraping to Coriolanus Snow of all people, opening their pockets at his whims… they were observed.

Henry wouldn't be bothered by their taking in Annia, but someone listening might be.

She'd have to play it carefully.

"What happened?" she asked, praying for a normal answer.

"Someone sent TGN a copy of my term paper from _ages_ ago on 'alternative entertainment', threatened to have them all hung as conspirators for employing me unless I was terminated immediately. Producers are more replaceable than… well, everyone's necks on the line," Annia said quietly.

Margaret could have seen that coming. Working for 'The Games Network', you're not likely to gain a sympathetic ear for your thesis on the potential benefits of non-Games alternatives to entertainment-sourcing from the districts. Annia could be so foolish. Thought so little of strategy and so much of art, of fairness.

Annia was the same person she'd been forty-five years ago, and not just because her alterations kept her perpetually in her twenties.

Life had dealt Margaret a different hand.

And this - this might be the draw that broke her streak.

Could Henry keep his position with a traitor in the house? Could she?

Her work organizing the extra-Capitol Peacekeeping forces' budgets was comparatively nothing of note, but she was certain that it could prove important someday. She had never truly underestimated the districts like so many in the Capitol did, working with military and civilian leaders in District 2. They liked her and she liked them. District 2 was a good, efficient place, where blending in and talking straight mattered more than gluing enough tiny gold butterfly sequins to the tips of one's eyelashes.

Margaret was, by now, a chameleon of sorts. Sixty-six, though she could pass for early middle age. Plain, because it suited her.

Annia had never learned not to stand out.

As she watched her friend, the tall poppy got cut down. Again and again.

"Thank you for taking me in," Annia said sadly, accepting the towel that Margaret offered her wordlessly. "You may still have some of my clothes from the last time. Which is great, because they'd changed the locks on my apartment by the time I got home."

Henry wasn't a general last time.

"Annia," Margaret said slowly.

"I know, I'm sorry," she replied, interrupting. "I keep doing this to myself. But I don't do small, Margaret, I have… I have ideas, like we used to have. Remember that? Do you remember what we believed?"

Beautiful, talented Annia, who wouldn't know self-preservation until it slipped poison into her cup.

"It's what the country needs from me - from _us_! Big things," Annia insisted.

"I'm… I'm so sorry," Margaret murmured. "You need to get out."

"What?" Annia said abruptly.

"Are you drunk?" Margaret demanded, feigning outrage that must have looked far too real to her friend. "You bring that kind of talk into my home?"

She could only pray that somewhere beneath her shattered expression, Annia understood what she was doing. The terrible situation Annia had put her in. Why she couldn't help her, this time.

"I… I'm sorry, you're right," Annia said slowly. "I've had too much to drink. It's been a long… two days. Just let me get the bag I left in your guest room, please. I'm sorry."

"Yes, _please_ , take your things," Margaret demanded, her heart breaking with every word. "They reek of your … sedition."

The word caught on the tip of her tongue, but managed to spill out nonetheless.

Annia nodded numbly. Retrieved a single ornate suitcase.

"I'll… try to get ahold of my pa-" she began to explain.

"Don't tell me," Margaret snapped. "I have no use for your whereabouts. Get the hell out of my house."

She imagined the cameras, where they'd be. Feigned a cough so she could dry her eyes without looking too unnatural. Snow knew, of course. She wouldn't be surprised if Coriolanus, or someone close enough to him to know that she was the powerhouse behind Henry Templesmith's rise through the ranks… one of them must have sent the letter that got Annia sacked.

To prove they could do it. Henry was a general and it meant less than nothing.

For the same reason they kept her in the task that so many considered drudgery, communicating and working with the lesser beings that inhabited the districts. Even District 2. That was her place, no matter how high she could help her husband climb. She would never leave the first or second rung. She would be Mrs. Henry Templesmith on her tombstone, just as she was in life.

Annia closed the door carefully behind her, and Margaret wondered how things could have been different - drawing a blank.

"Hey, Margaret!" Henry called excitedly from the viewing room. "Rule change! That's never happened before! It's amazing - see for yourself!"

Shaking away her thoughts, she made her way to her husband's side.

"What's happened, love?" she asked.

"Two from each district can win! Isn't that amazing? You know, I met Coriolanus the other day - he says there's big things underway."

"A first name basis with the President?" she inquired. "You're even more of a star than I took you for."

"Well, he… he calls _me_ 'Henry', which means _something_. Familiar, right? But no one… no one calls the President by his first name to his face, unless they mean real disrespect," Henry explained gravely, as though she must be hearing this for the first time.

"Still a star in my eyes," she reminded him, kissing the side of his jaw in such a way that he remembered he was bigger and taller than she was.

"Anyway, the rule change!" Henry continued blithely. "Two from a district can win! A pair! It's brilliant - district unity is such a big topic, the idea of how it could be used… y'know, so they police themselves a little more, need fewer guns pointing at them all the time."

"As general, your position relies on them needing guns pointed their way," Margaret said gently. "But that's very clever. Just try not to make yourself obsolete."

"You shouldn't worry about those things," he told her. "The main thing is, look at Cato and Clove from District Two! You're always in District Two, and they seem so pleased about the whole thing. That could be good for you."

Margaret grimaced internally.

If the Capitol ripped the rug out from under District 2, well… District 2 had enough strong cultural attitudes towards betrayal to fill a second honors thesis. As far as 'district unity' went, they already had it in spades, though with some tension between the mining and the military class.

It would mean a lot in District 2, to see big blond miners'-son Cato lock excited eyes with his ally, the darker-featured Peacekeepers' daughter Clove - it would mean something important. If they would only think to play it like that.

But this must, of course, be some gambit around the pair from 12.

"Peeta!" the poor deluded poacher-girl was screaming at the top of her little lungs, unaware that her presumed-lover was off dying on a riverbank.

Though she wouldn't voice it aloud, Margaret had her quarrels with Seneca Crane's style of Gamemaking. He loved his clever twists so much, but he was too clever by half.

"Where'd your college friend go?" Henry asked at last, as the scene cut to a commercial break advertising a pill that would, it claimed, change the scent of your sweat.

"Parents' house," Margaret explained shortly, knowing Annia's severe parents would take her in to keep her off the streets, though she'd have no easy time in the bosom of her family.

"Smart," Henry commented. "I've been thinking, if we're going to take in strays with Augur and Verres in the service, now, we should be altruistic about it. Did you know Claudius has been talking about adopting district orphans, of all things?"

Margaret swallowed the lump in her throat. Her sons doing a tour in the Peacekeeping force had seemed such a good idea to Henry, for god only knew what reason. She suspected Snow. She suspected everyone, though. 'Paranoid' implied that her fears were irrational, but they were very firmly grounded in reality.

 _Capitol_ Peacekeepers rarely saw combat, rarely died. This was a point of pride for the men and women she worked with in District 2. In District 2, they were proud to die for their country, onscreen or in white armor.

Still, she felt a profound solidarity with the those in the staff whose sons or daughters had been spirited off to the training facility. They knew they'd likely never see their children again, and _they_ didn't waver.

Magnus Craig, the subcommander in charge of the remote training facility where District 2's most promising children were shuffled - out of sight, out of mind - had traded a hand-drawn portrait of his daughter for a last picture she'd taken of Augur and Verres, in uniform, before shipping out.

The scratchy watercolor depiction of a girl, no more than five or six, was dated a decade ago.

"Sullie's well on her way to serving herself," he explained. "Your boys have nothing to fear."

"They won't be useless layabouts, I've raised them better than that," she sighed, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. "They'll be brave like Sullie."

"Bravery is no match for what they're taught in the Center. You should know that, yourself, by now."

"I'm sure you're right. With time, I hope I'll learn to be proud of their sacrifice - it would be a high honor to die with a young woman like your Sullie. I've already learned so much from District Two."

Magnus clapped her on the back, a friendly gesture that, from the mountain of a man, knocked most of the air from her lungs.

"We'll make a fighter of you yet, Mrs. Templesmith."

Her eyes watered, from the blow and from her tears and from her fear for Augur and Verres.

But she wouldn't let anyone see her flinch.

Despite all reassurances, the two empty bedrooms haunted her.

"Adopting is an… interesting idea," she said hesitantly.

"It wouldn't have to be forever," he added cajolingly. "We could get a nice little girl! Haven't you always wanted a daughter?"

"Let's… wait," Margaret suggested. "See how the promotion works out. I'm always traveling, that's no way to raise a child."

Henry sighed.

"Of course, dearest. We'll talk about it another time."

The screen shifted back to a jubilant scene between Cato and Clove, even battered as they were - hope was in the air!

Rain pounded the windows of the spacious apartment. All Margaret could smell was, beneath the perfume of the indoor space, a stomach-turning note of decay.

x

Margaret Lancaster, the Rebel Capitol (after the 75th Hunger Games)

Augur Templesmith has been killed in action in the taking of the mountain compound in the center of District 2's largest city. Verres Templesmith was ferried back to the Capitol, faced tribunal, and died alongside his father.

Now, she was really alone.

Was it enough, washing off her makeup, stripping the dye from her hair to return it to its natural grey, donning spectacles from before her vision had been bad enough to correct surgically?

She burned any identification with the 'Templesmith' name. The deed to her home. Every piece of correspondence between herself and Henry. The fool. The absolute fool.

The poor, dead fool, beheaded with his son in the central square alongside men who'd _deserved it_.

Her university ID still read 'Margaret Lancaster'.

She burned her marriage license once she found it. A real novelty, a book of hard-copy photos, including the one of Augur and Verres about to ship out - was it two years ago? All of it fueled the fire.

Margaret Lancaster. How long had it been since she was Margaret Lancaster?

Any minute, they could break down her door. They didn't, but she was ready with Henry's sidearm, knew exactly where to aim it so she'd go fast, before they could execute her like a common criminal in the square. No higher dishonor than to be executed as a traitor.

Her lines of communication were long since down, but she was sure that was what they'd done in the Training Center in District 2 - no triumphant word of its capture in the papers, no names she recognized at the guillotines. They must have killed themselves, all of the pushing-ten-thousand staff and trainees she'd overseen. Otherwise the rebels would be tripping over themselves to flaunt their capture, surrender, murder.

It was mayhem in the Capitol by the time she made it to the streets. Rebel control of the refugee population waxed and waned, and so did the refugee population itself, before the bullets of the rebels' rifles. She kept herself well-cloaked. Found a group of stranded Capitolites who looked competent. Suggested they should speak to their captors about how best to organize the refugee camp, as only a Capitolite knew the ways of other Capitolites, which were foreign to the district-born rabble wrapped in bandanas and stolen body armor.

She had never been a public figure like Henry. Few recognized her and any who did kept quiet.

She wondered whether they'd found Annia, whether her head rested in a basket in the square. Then again, would a disgraced media producer be sufficient target for the rebels' bloodlust?

Margaret Lancaster was good at keeping order, having learned, over the decades, to maintain tight control over herself and most everyone in her orbit. She reached an uneasy truce with the rebels overseeing the rehoming of Capitol refugees because she was useful, because she adopted the same businesslike mannerisms that gained her the confidence of the overseers, training directors, instructors from District 2.

"You don't _seem_ like a Capitolite," one young rebel, a woman who couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen, remarked with skepticism etched across her face.

"I was born in the districts," she lied. "Adopted here."

She and Henry had never managed to adopt that hypothetical district girl. It was probably for the best that everything had gone to hell before they could drag another child into the mess.

Slowly, though, she was gaining traction in this new world, where she was Margaret Lancaster, a nobody who could somehow manage, better than most, to keep order amongst the refugees, knew the Capitol streets and its resources better than the average rebel. She supervised the rehoming of eight stranded Capitolites in what had once been her home with Henry, among hundreds of others.

The wife of Henry Templesmith was, to her relief, presumed dead.

If only Henry could see her now, watching on a grainy nine-inch screen as the rebel figurehead, the Mockingjay, was ushered out into the square. She held her breath as Coriolanus Snow, under whose reign she had once lived in abject fear, was set to be executed.

Gasped along with everyone else as the young woman turned and sent an arrow through the brain of the rebel President, Alma Coin.

It was mayhem, all over again.

At first, it seemed to be the product of the young woman's perfidy, that the command structure disappeared, half of Margaret's rebel contacts abruptly vanished and the other half abandoned rehoming efforts in favor of patrolling the streets.

How had Katniss Everdeen done so much damage with a single arrow?

Quickly, though, it became clear that this was not the influence of the Mockingjay alone.

It was a coup.

She didn't know - didn't know anything until her living-group's small stockpile of food began to run out and she ventured out into the streets and found them deserted. They were near the central square - most of the surviving structures suitable for habitation were.

Communications had been down for a week. She had no idea what she'd find there. But hoped it would involve food or a swift death, starving being a kind of _low_ she'd hoped never to achieve.

Instead, the first white-suited figure she confronted - who seemed to be in charge of the hive of activity - whipped off his helmet to reveal a grim but familiar face.

"Magnus Craig?" she exclaimed.

He broke into a thin smile, about as good of a reaction as one could hope for.

"Well, sand me down and call me a marble countertop," he declared. "Margaret Templesmith."

"Lancaster," she corrected him. "Margaret Lancaster."

"That's you? The rebels we've tortured keep naming a 'Margaret Lancaster' as the Capitol's leader."

"They've killed the rest of them," Margaret sighed bitterly. "Henry. One of my sons died in District Two, the other… here, in the square."

"The taking of Mount Lupus," Magnus said, his expression darkening. "The scum killed my daughter there, too."

At eighteen, Lancaster remembered, Sullie Craig would have left the Training Center and entered the Peacekeeping force. Perhaps she'd served alongside Augur. Been there for that dreadful cave-in.

"Perhaps my son had the honor of dying by Sullie's side," Lancaster murmured.

Magnus nodded sharply.

"Well, I'm glad they've put you in charge," he said. "Everyone competent seems to be dead."

"I'm not in charge," Margaret laughed. "I supervise refugee rehoming and supply lines. I'm only alive because without a certain population density, the country will collapse. No Capitol citizen is granted a position of authority."

"Come with me," Magnus said. "We'll have to get you cleaned up, of course, but the troops need a commander, and it will do them good to see a familiar face."

"What troops?" Margaret demanded. "After Mount Lupus, half of your forces were wiped out, the other half imprisoned! Have you broken them out, somehow?"

"The Training Center still stood. While it stood, we had an army of unparalleled quality, waiting for an opportunity."

He lead her through a square packed with uniformed soldiers moving bodies, crates of supplies - dissembling the guillotines. On seeing Magnus' face, two helmeted soldiers opened the doors of the President's mansion, to reveal a control room packed with helmetless armored soldiers.

Few of them more than eighteen years old.

Margaret gasped. A few middle-aged women, one or two of whom she recognized, operated holo-screens or barked orders.

"Did you find the 'Margaret Lancaster' person?" one of them demanded. "Is this her?"

"Even better," Magnus explained, gesturing at Margaret where she stood, draped in jackets, grey-haired and barefaced and deeply confused but gamely standing up straight, raising her chin as though she had something left to be proud of. "Our old friend Margaret Templesmith, though… recently single."

"No," the woman insisted. "Really?"

"I never lost hope that your forces would prevail," Margaret declared with a smile. "I knew it was a matter of surviving until you found an opportunity to retake what belongs to us."

Lies, all lies, but that was what she knew now - how to lie, and how to smile while she did it.

She turned to one of the women she recognized.

"Is your son among our liberators?" she asked. "As I recall, Felix was just on the cusp of being accepted to the principal military force."

"He's alive," the woman said, looking thunderstruck. "I'm surprised you remember."

"I'll remember him with gratitude once all of this is settled," Margaret declared. "I remember all of you. You'll need help with the supply channels, but once we have those cleared - it'll be a swifter process now that we have real soliders on the job - I can resume my role organizing and provisioning your forces and rebuilding the Capitol, District Two, all the rest of it. If we move quickly, we can have fields cleared and ready by the time the snow melts, avert the famine we have looming over our heads."

'Real soldiers' was a strong word to describe the two armored young women, barely fourteen or fifteen, who seemed to be trying to eavesdrop from where they were sorting weapons in a pile on the marble floor. A stretch by which to describe any of the remarkably youthful boys and girls - Games-aged - who moved around the room in full armor.

It was a flattering word, though. That seemed to be what Magnus and the others thought, watching her with some unclear emotion.

"Does that not sound appropriate?" she asked, noting their pause.

"Well, we'll need a President," Magnus said.

"Give me a name, I'll get him for you and rally the survivors of the Capitol behind him. There must be some remaining leaders who've done as I did, and there were hundreds if not thousands of evacuees who'll be returning once the smoke has cleared and you've restored order," she said, already prepared to slip into whatever role they wanted for her.

She was hungry, but hopefully the layers of coats concealed her growling stomach. She'd seen the crates of supplies - they _must_ have food.

"That sounds unnecessarily complicated," one of the women laughed. "Given that you already have a plan to rebuild. And with our existing relationship…"

"What we're saying is, Ms. Lancaster," Magnus added, "if you'll get washed up, someone needs to address the troops and get the stone rolling. Like you said, we'd prefer to have things in order before winter ends. The population crisis you described is a real risk if we don't find a way to distribute what we already have, and half the rails are destroyed - can any of your well-dressed refugees operate a hovercraft?"

"I'm sorry," Margaret asked, wrestling with the implications of what the leaders of District 2's military coup were trying to tell her. "You want me to… what?"

"You've been doing it already - for decades, Ms. Lancaster. We want you to lead."

x

President Margaret Lancaster, The Capitol (81st Hunger Games)

She shouldn't be zoning out, it was a terrible habit.

The colors of the sunset above the spires of the Capitol, though the skyline still marred in places by cranes and construction scaffolding, were very beautiful from the penthouse window of her office.

"Mr. Rometo," she sighed, tearing her gaze away from the massive pane of glass that took up the whole westward-facing wall, "You're not in trouble."

" _Fired_ sounds a lot like trouble," the man snapped.

"I didn't say 'fired'," she insisted.

Chiron Rometo, a middle-aged man, one of the last of the 'old guard' of Gamemakers who'd survived the Mockingjay Rebellion, stood, fuming, before her desk. He was on the stocky side, tall, with dark hair and a beard colored shiny bronze. In much finer garb than President Margaret Lancaster in her staid grey skirt-suit.

"'Retired', at fifty-five?" he countered.

"You've accomplished a lot since the 76th Games," she argued. "More than you ever could have hoped as a simple apprentice of Seneca Crane, so many years ago."

" _Exactly_ , what fault do you find with the quality of my work?"

"Your ratings in the districts are abysmal. You promised me that Cereus from Eleven, in the 79th Games - you claimed you'd replicate that success. The highest district viewership in years, as he won. But Sequin from One, last year? And now you're set up to crown Lucian from District 2, a trite, overplayed volunteer villain if I've ever seen one?"

"So you just want more district victors? Then say that! I can crown more district victors!" Head Gamemaker Rometo insisted, his voice ticking up slightly in timbre.

"I don't like your arenas, and neither do the districts," the President continued, pursing her lips. "Cereus Gardner got lucky, in a shopping mall arena, for heaven's sake. Who in the districts has ever seen a shopping mall? It smacks of the artificial, of everything they were taught to hate about the Capitol. Your 'highway' arena, the cars… _they don't know how to drive_! They don't know what they're looking at!"

"You correct my errors and you order my resignation in the same breath," Rometo seethed. "District viewership wouldn't be an issue if you would mandate it."

"There's a disconnect, here, because you've clearly been ignoring my reports on the Games' success for the last five years, each one laden with these exact recommendations," Lancaster explained frostily.

Head Gamemaker Rometo, still sullen, looked anywhere but in her eyes.

"Or didn't you think I would last this long?" she continued evenly. "What was I thinking, appointing a member of the old guard? I should never have hired you."

"I was the only one who knew how it worked," Rometo explained through grinding teeth. "The only one left alive."

"You're alive because the rebels didn't target incompetent apprentices," Lancaster shot back. "Over forty, still without a _real_ job. You'd be nothing without me, and back to nothing you'll go."

"Because of your… limp-wristed, district-loving…"

"I told you, I wanted them to be proud of the Games. I wanted them to _want_ to watch, just as the Capitol does. They shouldn't just be a tool to placate the Capitol, to reinforce that hierarchy - now that the districts have the vote, I'm sure the Games can be a tool to elevate them, not to subjugate them as a homogenous mass."

"They've always been a tool for subjugation! It's in their DNA! You can't… revise history like that!" he declared, clearly flustered, in contrast to her icy calm affect. "You don't get to say how it _was_ , and you can't just declare that killing off their children is _empowering_ now! You put me in an impossible position."

"I'm the President," she told him calmly. "I'll say and do and ask whatever I want. You'll remain on the staff until preparations for the 82nd Games have been completed, sharing whatever is necessary with your successor to ensure her success."

"Who?" Rometo demanded. "Who will you bring on? Who will work with you on this fool's errand?"

She pressed a button on her desk, buzzing in her next visitor.

A tall, beautiful, dark-skinned woman in an intricately braided updo and a fine gown of red-wine velvet stepped into the penthouse office, looking absolutely petrified.

"Meet Annia Neves," President Lancaster declared. "Your successor."

"The 81st Games aren't even finished, and you expect me to work with some green…"

The President interrupted before he could say anything insulting.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Ms. Neves is a brilliant producer, a talented scriptwriter, and a valuable, creative, progressive voice, unlike some people I could name. Please show her to her new office promptly and get to work on the statement you'll read at the conclusion of this year's Games announcing your retirement."

She pressed another button on her desk, and four helmeted Peacekeepers entered the room to ensure he did exactly that.

"It's… an honor to see you again, President Lancaster," Annia said, bowing deeply, trying to ignore what was going on around her.

"Likewise, Annia," the President said with a smile.

A genuine smile, for the first time in a long time.

When she met Annia's eyes, though her old friend had barely aged since their last meeting, she couldn't help but observe that the woman's eyes were dark with fear and her expression was haunted.

It wasn't an uncommon look, among those who'd survived as refugees during rebel control of the Capitol.

But it would be fine. This was good. She'd have Annia back, a piece of her past, a piece of who she really was, no more of this dreadful man, Chiron Rometo… It would be better now. Easier.

So little was easy these days.

They would be _more_ together. Like they'd always planned. And Annia was competent, capable, willing to take orders, unlike members of the old guard, who seemed to be waiting for her to… fall apart, lose her post, lose the reins of the country or plunge it into ruin.

Panem was not in ruins. Panem was healthier than ever, District 9 and 11 turned to places of bounty after Reconstruction, District 2 was well into the process of restructuring the training program to reform the manner by which Peacekeepers were imposed on district populations. Her old friends now commanded a sprawling military that included recruits from all districts.

And no one wanted to see things go back to the way they were, during the Rebellion and the terrifying years before her administration really came into its own and restored the Games.

They were such a small price to pay, to give her legitimacy in the Capitol, and she was sure - so sure - that the districts could be taught not to resent them so.

Annia would teach them.

Together, they would make the Games something the districts could be proud of - as it had always been in District 2.

Together, they would create the Panem they'd always hoped could exist someday.

x

The Present Day (The 89th Hunger Games)

The dust hadn't settled on the completed arena before a hovercraft descended in the early evening, perching delicately on a barren patch of earth. It was a newer model, constructed with a designer's eye for demurity rather than the eagle-like ostentatiousness of slightly older government models.

The woman who stepped briskly from the belly of the machine, flanked by two Peacekeepers in immaculate white uniforms, was tall, dark haired but greying, neatly groomed and apparently in her early fifties. While her movements were light and calculated, she carried the weight and shape of a life with little physical exertion and no shortage of good food.

"It's hot," she noted, raising her hand to cover her eyes as she gazed up at the clouds.

Her excruciatingly modest grey skirt suit, the hem of which brushed her mid-calf, couldn't be helping with the balminess of the afternoon.

"That _was_ the goal you highlighted on the arena proposal," a second woman, exiting the hovercraft, replied.

This one appeared a little less homely, more tailored and fashion-conscious and refined. There were brush strokes of the artificial in the thirty-something image that she willfully projected – features a little too perfect, face a little too symmetrical, skin too tight around the jaw and eyes. Her glossy skin was the color of darkly stained mahogany and her wild, natural hair, so black as to be nearly blue, was braided into a carefully nonchalant updo.

She walked with the same approximate character as the President, though, suggesting that, while appearances did differ, the actuality of age did not.

"Any particular reason you thought to bring me here at what I assume is the least temperate time of day?" the President asked, a touch of annoyance coloring her voice.

"You can't see temperature on a screen." The second woman shrugged.

"You wanted me to praise your arena," the President clarified. "I won't disappoint. Well done, Annia. We've been working on the Games together for near a decade and your work has never yet fallen short of the high regard in which I hold you."

Annia smiled genuinely, revealing a set of beautifully straight teeth.

"Where are we? I lose track of your arenas so readily, forgive me."

"This one is about two hundred miles south of the District 11 border. One of the boundaries is the ocean – we saved a great deal of money, limiting the necessity for a force field. Trust me, we'll make short work of anyone who thinks to escape via the soft boundary. And it'll make for good television besides."

The President nodded appreciatively. "You've never given me cause not to trust you, Annia."

"President Lancaster, not that I don't adore your company, but why exactly did you want to be shown around the arena in the first place? You said it yourself – it's not exactly comfortable."

"In general, I defer to your judgment on these matters – but I wanted to see it myself, this time. Your last several arenas have been very successful. I really appreciate the return to the foundations of the Games, the simplicity – you should have seen the awful attempts at modernization that your predecessor would show me. Shopping malls. Dreadful."

Annia's legacy was not one of risk-taking - a classic desert her first year. They'd carved out a slice of territory not too far south of District 1. An icy forest the next year, a straight shot north from the Capitol itself. Frozen tundra the year following, dotted with thickets of weeds and not much else. A mountain enveloped from base to zenith with a massive force field. 'Back to basics' was the name of the game.

"For the most part," Lancaster clarified, "I just needed to talk shop with you. And get out of my office. There have been threats, lately - unrest is spreading in the Capitol, which I scarcely thought possible."

They stood for a moment under the sweltering heat of the early afternoon sun, the drone of insects' wings harmonizing to a steady chord played continuously in the background. Masses of vines engulfed the surrounding trees, a brilliant green accumulation of organic material that rippled gently in the sparse breeze.

The earth on which they had landed was perhaps the only truly dry ground for miles. In patches, this moisture turned the vegetation a rich green – in large part, though, oversaturation yellowed the grass and left shallow pools of fetid water simmering beneath the sun.

"Well, you couldn't get further from the Capitol than here," Annia commented.

"I do like this arena. Don't look so tense." Lancaster laughed, placing a hand on the Head Gamemaker's shoulder. "Really, it's been _months_ since I've seen you outside of a meeting room – and I _am_ glad for the company."

Lancaster's strength, during her rise to power after the turmoil of the Mockingjay Rebellion, had been as much her military backing as the nonthreatening demeanor she exhibited.

A harsher hand could not have restructured the fractured government. But Lancaster had been calculated, and her influence was exerted with delicacy and finesse. Her message – a return to the way things were – resonated with a country suffering greatly in the aftermath of a failed rebellion. Not forgiveness, but _fairness_ , she promised.

Panem-that-was, but lead not by a madman – by a sensible, practical, mothering type who wouldn't dream of touching poison or steel, god forbid.

She kept the needs of the districts in mind, even if she didn't precisely put them first. She responded to the crisis in District 5's gas fields with a practical, measured, well-thought-out seizure of northern territory, introducing an element of district cooperation between District 3 and District 6 in order to develop the necessary technology to keep the oil flowing from the freshly acquired tar sands. Showed an aptitude for that sort of engagement with the districts – carefully regaining their trust in the central government.

When asked, about the abandoned districts, she would smile. "Panem has no use for near-empty coal mines or a smoking crater where traitors used to do their business. District 12 was useless, and District 13 has hurt this country quite enough. Some things are better left in the past."

Her decidedly maternal appearance and frequent appeals for civility and stability worked well in the aftermath of the chaotic violence of the Mockingjay Rebellion.

There was a deep appeal to her mantra of stabilization. Even the most machiavellian Capitol politician had to admit – it was easier to manipulate the government when there was a government to manipulate. While Lancaster made sweeping reforms to avoid corruption leading to a repeat of past instability, she couldn't entirely eliminate the problem, and likely didn't wish to do so in any meaningful way beyond a campaign promise. Fair _enough_ , transparent _enough_ , good _enough_.

She promised Panem the way it used to be, but better. It was little things that added up that kept her neatly in power – improvements to the quality of tesserae, electricity that flowed consistently to all eleven districts, supervision of Peacekeeper tribunals to ensure that those convicted of egregious crimes did not repeat them. Little promises that invariably went fulfilled.

For a nation exhausted by failed rebellions and false prophets, the reinstatement of the Hunger Games seemed a small price to pay for the promise of stability, security, and a steadily improving quality of life.

"It feels different, from the inside," the President noted, scanning the horizon as though deep in thought. "Bigger."

The sun was beginning to set, painting the horizon brilliant colors - pink, purple, gold.

"It'll be a job keeping them close enough together to keep the interactions interesting, but the landscape alone is rather captivating, I find. We've got swamp, shore, and chaparral, all within a few miles. Some fascinating muttations," Annia added, her enthusiasm apparent.

"I'm glad – just remember, with all this in progress, I need you looking forward to next year's Games as well. Your job never really ends. We have that in common," the President sighed. "I did want to talk to you _alone_."

She glanced unappreciatively at the Peacekeepers. "Can you imagine, though, these dears haven't been willing to let me out of their sight."

"Death threats do tend to worry professional bodyguards," Annia noted wryly.

"It's not even from the districts! – they seem rather calm, though there's some division in District 3. Would you believe, there's some movement towards a 'Training Center' like they've been doing in District 4? And the accompanying countermovement, of course. Fascinating – but really just intensifying District 3's nationalism." She sighed. "But between myself and the Capitolist faction, there's no love lost. All they've succeeded in doing is keeping me out of the fresh air."

"I can't blame you for coming, out, then. And you can count on me, you know. We've got a nice island arena in progress for next year, and we've been meeting with the mentors recently – you're always talking about district unity, so we're stressing the fact that tributes, especially tributes from Centers that benefit from Capitol funding, ought to espouse those values."

"I'm very glad, Annia." Lancaster eyed her sadly. "Of late, I find myself missing you more than ever. Presidency is a lonely business."

"I understand."

"Come on, now, we should be heading back to work. This was much more pleasant than being shown a simulation – thank you for having me."

"Of course, President Lancaster," Annia replied, her smile dimmed only a little by the character of the conversation.

For a second, their hands brushed as they turned back the way they'd came – neither jerked away, but Lancaster looked up as though she'd touched a cattle prod, crossing her arms with marked discomfort.

The two Peacekeepers escorted the pair back onto the tiny, delicate hovercraft, port door sealing shut just as the first cicada of the evening began to shrill in earnest, heralding the setting of the sun.

In their absence, darkness fell over the arena as it had fallen many times before. It wouldn't be long until the screaming insects and crashing waves would have twenty-two children of the districts for company.


	2. Jewel, District 1

A Precious Stone

Jewel Lasday, District 1

x

Well, the world's open. And now through

the windshield the sky begins to blush

as you did when your mother told you

what it took to be a woman in this life.

'Exit', Rita Dove

x

The family physician told me, at age eight, that I would grow up to be five-foot-ten.

"Look at this curve," she explained, holding aloft a growth chart, the parabola of which arced upwards, never dipping below ninety-fifth percentile. "You're going to be as tall as your mom, and strong, too."

That was the physical that got me into accelerated training. My doctor's word was good enough for the talent scouts who were already hovering around my wealthy parents – a financier and a metalworker. Once you're in training, you're in for the long haul, even if you fall behind. They've got to winnow out the weak ones. That's part of the process. Once you're out of commission for the Games, though, you're not out of the life – they've got to have people around for the actual future volunteers to spar. And bitterness makes the failed recruits truly challenging opponents.

With eighty-nine years to hone the process, District 1 has the selection of future victors down to a science. I walked out of that physical and into a machine designed to take that promising someday-Amazon and turn her into a true representative of the district.

There have been snags along the way. Like, a lot. But they couldn't have picked better, when it comes down to it. I've never in my life done anything by halves. I've fought tooth and nail to be a winner, and they haven't even put me in the arena yet. It's not easy, purely by virtue of who I am – a woman, in a field that prizes masculine skill sets and is largely fueled by misdirected testosterone.

And not just any woman. I never did hit five foot ten. I was on track to, but right around fourth grade, something went wrong. I'm a hair less than five feet tall. Even on a good day.

I barely come up to the chests of my male competitors decked out in my highest heels. I stand on tiptoes to keep my face visible in the mirrors in the Training Center bathrooms, which were situated for women as tall as I was… supposed to be. But, cool thing about standing on tiptoes? It builds strong calves.

With that in mind, I slip my feet into sparkly silver platform heels and examine myself in the mirror. Not bad.

"You have great legs," Sheena tells me from where she still rests, curled up in bed.

I twirl for her, jokingly.

"Not kidding, Jewel." She whistles softly. "Something about all that murder training really gets your calves cut."

"Shut up, I can't even deal with you," I laugh. "Are you ever going to get up?"

"Nah, you wore me out pretty good. I'm gonna take a rain check tonight."

There's something unmistakably wistful in the way her voice fades out. Maybe I'm misreading it, but Sheena hasn't seemed herself in the last several weeks. Usually, the time leading up to the reaping is twelve-hour-a-day training interspersed with the best parties the district has to offer. For someone like Sheena, who's never gone near training – well, it's just parties. It's literally the best part of the year.

"What's up?" I ask.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do without you. You know. Until you get back. That's all."

I can't help but laugh. "Uh, look at you. You do anything and anyone you like. Like always, Sheena."

"I want you."

"Well, I can't be in two places at once. That's unrealistic."

Her long, dark hair drapes over most of her body as she sits up, shoots me a baleful look, and begins to search for her top. My gaze settles on the tiny purple bruise blooming above her clavicle. She seems to notice.

"How's the damage?" she asks.

"I've never left anything you couldn't cover with a stick of concealer! Meanwhile it looks like you've been beating me half to death. It's easier to just tell people these bruises come from training." I point to the massive purplish splotch on my right breast that stretches over the neckline of my dress.

She laughs. "I guess all that time tossing people around in the Center works most of the aggression out of your system."

"'Who's the one who's been getting the best of you in combat, Jewel?' they ask me. 'Who finally beat you in hand-to-hand?'. Little do they know it's a tiny girl who's never been inside of the Center because the smell is 'scary'."

"Okay, I'm half a head taller than you, you don't get to call me tiny," she pouts.

"I just call 'em like I see 'em."

"You always have." Sheena laughs, finally slipping out of bed to find her skirt and hose. "Literally, always. I can't remember you ever, once in your entire life, being tactful."

"Funny thing about being tactful: it's hard and not fun."

I put the finishing touches on my makeup as she dresses. Sparkly gold liner followed by a second layer of coal black, shades matched to my eye shadow contouring. Some girls feel comfortable going barefaced – Sheena went to prom with a guy from the Center entirely without makeup and looked like a vision – but that's never been me. I'll shellac the stuff on and still wish I'd thought to wear more halfway out the door.

"Who's throwing the last party this time?" Sheena asks, joining me at the mirror to brush on a little mascara and wipe off the smudges beneath her eyes. "Is it someone fun?"

"If it is, will you come?" I ask.

"I've got to be at home. My mom's doing a reaping night party and she needs all the hands she can get in the kitchen. Even if that weren't happening, to be honest, I'm just not feeling the celebration vibe."

"We could find you a cute guy to take your mind off things!"

This actually makes her grin. "You're sweet. These parties are the worst places to meet guys, though. I don't know how you stand to be with the ones who didn't make the cut, but still have to stick around – they have so much anger. Not just the guys, either."

It kind of goes without saying that Sheena and I have a nontraditional sort of friendship. Neither of us exclusively likes guys, and neither of us is in a safe position to be completely open about it. Both of us like each other. It's complicated. Most of District 1 culture is like that, though.

There's this weird undercurrent of repression underneath the external appearance of being open and accepting of young people's choices – yeah, you can hook up with whatever guy you want, no consequences, sure, everyone's okay with that – but you want to date a girl? Nah.

No one's going to stop me once I've won. My family is my mom, and she's not the sort to police my choices much. Not long after that doctor's appointment that started everything into motion for me, with training and enrollment in the Center and advanced classes, my father was arrested for embezzlement. He was carted off to a Capitol tribunal. When the Capitol takes you somewhere, you have at most a 1/22 chance of coming back.

When you steal money from them, for whatever reason, your chances of returning dwindle to roughly zero.

Things got tight for my family very quickly. We'd gotten used to living on a financier's salary with my mom's job as sort of a part-time thing. Suddenly, she was working full-time so we could keep the house, I was transferred to a different school, and neither of my parents was around. Training was the only constant in my life, and god, I threw myself into it hard.

No one worked harder, fought harder, had more to prove. No one was lonelier. No one relied on the Center, and their approval of their life choices, more than I did.

District 1 has given me so much. But it's also taken a lot away.

"You okay?" Sheena asks, shaking me out of my thoughts. "Is it the Games?"

Maybe she's more worried about that than she's letting on. I can't dream of why – it might be the overconfidence talking, but I absolutely can't imagine not coming back.

The furrow between her brows tells me that overconfidence may be my problem, but it isn't hers. Her beautiful face is contorted in some thinly-veiled emotion, the corners of her eyes turned down in something like pain or fear.

I put my hand on her cheek – soft like crushed velvet, the color of finished maple – and lean in for a long, slow kiss. "Don't worry about me. Please."

She averts her eyes, tucking her hair behind her ears.

"You don't want to get prematurely wrinkly, hm? You'd still be beautiful, but people would think you were older than me instead of younger."

This makes her laugh again – I love to hear her laugh.

"I bet you say that to all the girls."

"Nah, you're the only girl for me." That much is definitely true. It's not a traditional, monogamous relationship, but – well, there's no one else, literally no one I would risk this for.

Perception is everything to the Center. If you're, for some reason, not marketable enough – there's something about you that'll turn off a potential sponsor or ally – you're out of the pool. No more dreams of victory. They're not vocal with their prejudice, but enough people are to know that, hey, heterosexual promiscuity is fine – even a potential asset to the girls, though they'd never say it in so many words. But god help you if there's anything about you that might make some Capitolite snob turn up their nose.

I don't know how things will work out between us when I get back – I hope the situation won't change. But at the same time, I know that Sheena, like me, desperately needs people – desperately needs attention and love and validation. Her household may not be as visibly broken as mine, but there are some kinds of abandonment that you can't see until you've gotten close enough, and I've definitely gotten close. It seems like, in my absence, there's a fair chance that she'll find someone else to fill the gap I'm leaving.

It's a very, very open relationship, and she'd be welcome to close it off at any time. I hope she won't, but it's kind of a selfish hope.

"Those heels _are_ really nice on you," she tells me, looking me up and down. "Best-looking girl in the district, no contest."

"Nah," I laugh. "I'm looking at her."

Her gaze is back on her own feet. "I'm gonna miss you so much, Jewel. So goddamn much."

"I'm going to miss you, too. Promise me you'll find a way to be happy, though. Like, I mean, if something happens-"

"Have a backup plan," she says softly, finishing the conclusion we've been working towards for three years.

Bad things do happen in the Games. A lot. Maybe I should be more worried about myself than about Sheena. The final thought has always been, if the worst does happen, she's got to find people who love her and move right the hell on. Serving my district is the way I want to go down, if it has to happen. Trying to win so Sheena and my mom and all the people I love and care for can have a better life, can have more in their pockets and more in their pantries. And I want the glory, yeah, but that, the Center teaches us, can't be the only motivation.

Do it for the people you love and the district you serve and you'll have a strength of willpower that can't be broken. Do it for the little girls who want to see someone who looks like them winning, succeeding in a world that often tells them they can't. Do it to come home, but do it to come home to a stronger, happier, more prosperous district.

Sheena helps me to put in a pair of pearl stud earrings.

"Have fun," she tells me. "The next time you party will be in the Capitol."

I smile. "I'll be thinking of you."

"Don't think too hard. It's yourself you need to concentrate on, okay? Not just winning, but – live your life, have fun, don't let the fact that I'm here hold you back."

"You know the same goes for you. Always."

"Yeah. This – like, what we have going on, casual or not, real or not – it's good. It's been good. There are people who think it's bad, but it's good." She sighs, and her gaze flickers towards the window.

"Really good," I echo.

"I need to head home. You need to head out."

I try to meet her eyes – Sheena isn't crying, but she has the kind of pink-tinged, pinched look to her expression that means she might. I feel the sense of loss, but not the tears – that's something that's been beaten out of me.

"Thank you for everything," I tell her. "I'm going to miss you."

Even my voice is cracking, just enough. I've built a very careful veneer to project a very carefully constructed image – and Jewel Lasday, as I've built her, does not cry and her voice does not crack.

It surprises Sheena enough to shake her out of her sorrow. "Girl, don't lose it now, you're on the home stretch. …maybe it's you who needs to meet a cute guy tonight."

"Let's not talk about that," I beg, taking a deep breath, trying to stabilize myself. "We're… we're saying goodbye."

"For now. Goodbye for now. Goodbye until you come back. Okay? You have to believe that – that you'll come back." She's reassuring _me_ now. I really am losing it. The night before the reaping.

"Goodbye for now."

"Goodbye for now, Jewel." She kisses me softly on the cheek. "Have fun. Best of luck. Know that you're loved wherever you go, whatever you do."

I'm at such a loss for words. "…same," I whisper.

She bursts out laughing and I follow suit. "You're hopeless, but I love you anyway."

"I love you, too."

It's beyond difficult to watch her leave my house for a last time. It feels like the temperature has dropped about five degrees with her absence. Something about it is hollow. It's my last night here.

Tomorrow, I'm going to volunteer for the Hunger Games.

Tonight, I'm going to dance and drink until I can't remember the doubts and confusion that weigh heavily on my conscience, that threaten the persona I desperately need to fulfill to keep myself alive over the next few weeks. I'm going to drink to forget and drink to move on. And maybe I'll even be able to crack a smile during my interview.

Right now, that seems unlikely.

I re-apply my lipstick carefully and lock the front door on my way out. The house will stay empty until my mom gets back, late, of course. Maybe even until I stumble back in to shower and get dressed for the reaping.

A lot of things in my life start to feel like metaphors if I think about them for long enough, and that's one of them. The empty house where my mother and father used to live together, where an eight-year-old Jewel ran home with the news – 'papa, I'm going to be tall, the doctor is going to recommend me for accelerated training!'

This was where he gathered me up into his arms, twirled me so that my skirt fanned out in the bell shape of the icing on top of a cupcake, told me I was already growing up to be stronger than he ever was. He promised me that when he watched me volunteer, he would be cheering the loudest.

I wonder, sometimes, whether they cut out his tongue or just killed him. No one ever told us how much money he stole. We never got a verdict. I just wonder, sometimes. Quietly.

The house fit three people more appropriately than it now fits the two of us. There's a shapeless, nameless emptiness inside it, making it achingly uncomfortable to be at home alone. It burns at my insides to be the only one in my bed, staring at the ceiling and remembering his bedtime stories. (and people wonder why I rarely go home alone.)

Sheena understood that about me – that my need for people was something different than my need for her. And I, in turn, understood why she so adamantly stood by parents who raised their hands against her – because sometimes any parents feel better than none at all, right? I understood. We understood each other.

Understand. Present tense.

When I get pensive like this, I've made a habit of just killing the sentiment with a vodka sledgehammer. Alcohol hasn't caught up with me quickly enough to have an impact on my performance, so where's the harm?

The party isn't all that far away – only about seventeen blocks, which only sounds like a lot if you're wearing high heels and you're not about to be honored as the most physically capable woman in the district. One out of two isn't bad.

Thanks to "all that murder training", I have the calves for this kind of workout.

Nearly a decade ago, I learned that I was meant to be tall. In my six-inch stilettos, I've actualized that goal in defiance of my physical limitations. More recently, I've come into the full awareness that I was meant to be strong. I was meant to be a winner.

Hopefully that's not going to be one more thing in my life that I have to fake.


	3. Manari, District 1

Note:

 _Two in a day, I'm on fire. In seriousness, get ready for drug mentions! The shisha we all know and love is flavored tobacco, but language and culture gets bastardized over time, and this is something a little stronger. Don't do drugs, not even once, smoking kills and particulate matter is never fun to have in your lungs._

x

One who is like a Lighthouse

Manari Issa, District 1

x

Who taught thee conflict with the pow'rs of night,

To vanquish satan in the fields of light?

Who strung thy feeble arms with might unknown,

How great thy conquest, and how bright thy crown!

'On the Death of a Young Gentleman', Phillis Wheatley

x

Early on in training, I was asked the same battery of questions that we all were, the most important of which – to my thinking, at least – was, 'when is it okay to kill a person?'

That's where my narrative first split apart from the other children – because my family is one of the few that had intimately discussed the question of the lawfulness of murder with an eight year old. I found my truth in Surah Al-An'am, 6:151. I recited it for my teacher.

'Do not kill the soul which Allah has forbidden, except by right.' Contextually, 'right' is jurisdiction under the law. My father had held exactly that conversation with me and my brother Nayir no more than a few weeks earlier. As he signed us both into training, he wanted us both – Nayir only seven and me barely a year older – to have the tools to reconcile our religion with that which we would be asked to do.

"It's okay to kill to save a life," I clarified for the interviewer that afternoon. "It's okay when you have to, under the law."

The meaning that my father helped me to construct, that my training helped me to actualize, was very clear. It's okay to kill in the Games. It's morally justifiable under every framework I've been offered – every kill occurs in the interests of the preservation of life, and every kill is licensed by authority in the interests of maintaining public order and stability.

Both Nayir and I passed that first test. He reported an answer almost identical to mine, and my father, when he got the news, told us Masha'Allah and ruffled our hair.

There would be many more tests over the next decade, to separate out the weak and the self-interested and the depraved. District 1 is fastidious about selecting the right tributes to volunteer, to represent the district. I've been honored with the title for this year's Games.

They choose for the 'full package'. Not just the trainee with the best sparring numbers – though I have my year's record – or the trainee with the best sponsor appeal. Both of those factor in, of course. But they identify the two people with the most staying power – the faith in the Games, the strength of both character and will. Then, there are strict screenings for compatibility.

If another competitor and I had maintained identical combat statistics, shown identical endurance and answered each question with complete congruity, the final decision would have come down to who got along better with the female trainee selected to volunteer.

It didn't have to be decided on that front, of course. I have the best numbers by a long shot – no false pride there. Every year, there are clear frontrunners, and I'm one of them.

Jewel and I, though, are probably not the ideal pairing, if they'd had much of a choice. She's a formidable competitor, it's true, but our shared interests and values end with training. I've maneuvered my view of her into a tenuous sort of respect, earned while watching her bring men over twice her size to the ground without a weapon – carefully ignoring the fact that she has a tendency to go home with those same men a few nights later. It's far from my place to judge.

I mean, for the moment, I'm just a guy sprawled on a threadbare couch in a huqqa lounge, so I can't really claim moral high ground over anyone.

To my right, my cousin Fahrah is hunched over, looking tiny and delicate in an aging, overstuffed armchair as she gazes pensively into the dimly-lit corner of the scarcely populated basement.

Fahrah was enrolled in training as well, against her parents' wishes – making it all the more catastrophic when she missed the seventeen-year-old eliminations last year. That's one of the great cruelties of the way the Center does things – those eliminated from the pool are made to remain in training as sparring partners for years after they've been cut.

Her contract with the Center won't expire until she's twenty-two – how else are they supposed to have challenging training partners for the chosen few?

I remember my first sparring match with Fahrah – I was very nearly cut for refusing first to take part, and then to hurt her, and then to finish the match when it was clear that I had won. The intervention of several training instructors with a more intimate knowledge of my moral compass and the unlikely prospects of encountering a younger female relative in the arena saved me from being cut on values.

They forced us back into the ring more than once after that, trying to beat it out of me, I guess – but my family's culture so strongly discourages any form of disrespect to women that even simple inter-gender sparring has been a massive ideological hurdle. People like Jewel have been very quick to point out that lack of acknowledgement for a woman's ability to hold her own in a fight is tantamount to disrespect, but it's different with someone like Fahrah.

She understands the way we've been taught that these dynamics are supposed to work – she knows that when I hurt her, I'm breaking an explicit rule. They're her rules, too. She was taught from birth that she would always be able to feel safe in my presence. Maybe it was a valuable lesson, that my beliefs ultimately have to yield to serve orders, but it was a painful one.

Luckily, the experience of competing together has unified us more than it has divided us. Even with her misfortune to be cut. Our friend groups intersect too much for a strained relationship to be tenable.

That's what brings us both to the huqqa lounge the night before the reaping – shared friends, shared confusion over where exactly we're supposed to be in a district culture where we don't entirely fit.

"Are you gonna stick around all night, Manari?" Fahrah asks as she passes me the mouthpiece and stretches the hose in my direction.

I reach up languorously to accept it, taking a long drag of the _shisha_ before I answer her. "Probably. There's only one party going on, and I'm not really feeling it."

"You're not feeling a party? Something up?" She actually appears concerned, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow. "That's not like you, is all."

"Maybe I'm growing up," I suggest, passing the mouthpiece to Shine, whose blonde head rests sleepily against my shoulder. "You know, it's just going to be a few hundred people, most of them drinking themselves half to death. Loud music. I'll wake up with a headache."

While that might have sounded like a pretty good night a few months ago, I'm in line to volunteer tomorrow morning. Something about that fast-encroaching reality has sobered me up. Somewhat. "Shine, you planning on taking the next hit, or you want to sit this one out?"

She shifts slowly, halfheartedly assuming a sitting position and finally accepting the mouthpiece. "I'm up."

There are about half a dozen of us settled on couches around the huqqa - some old friends from classes and the Center have drifted in over the last half-hour. The lounge is a lower-key option for those of us who follow old jurisprudence, or just don't like the taste of alcohol and the feeling of sweaty, dancing bodies. I'm not really sure where I stand, there. One of the two, or both, maybe.

Shine nuzzles closer to me after passing the mouthpiece on to Faberge, a classmate of mine for the last twelve years, who was cut in the thirteen-year-old round of eliminations. He eyes her position on the couch and raises his eyebrows suggestively at me as he leans in to take a drag.

By way of response, I roll my eyes, just slightly. In a physical sense, her body pressed against mine is not uncomfortable, but from the perspective of someone who has committed quite enough Haram acts to weigh me down under Allah's judgment, the proximity does make it a touch more difficult to avoid less innocent trains of thought.

Gingerly, I pat her hair and reposition myself.

"Has Nayir shown up, any chance?" I ask the assemblage of people around the pipe, though the question is mostly directed at Fahrah.

"No, haven't heard from him in a few days, actually," Fahrah replies.

"He was at the party at Facet's parents' hotel last night," Lapis, a taller girl with a thick tangle of brunette hair – seventeen and still in the running for next year's female tribute – volunteers.

"…what was he doing there?" I ask, already knowing the direction the answer is going.

"What? Uh, kicking my ass at a game of crystals," she begins, citing a well-known drinking game involving a set of twelve champagne flutes, the majority of which end up broken by the end. "Got kind of wasted."

"Am I going to have to apologize to anyone on his account?" I sigh.

"Nah, he helped with the cleanup once he was… y'know, conscious. He's a good guy. Still in the pool for next year, right?"

"Not for long if he keeps this up."

We all had a crazy phase – I mean, I sure as hell did, but I'm concerned by the fact that Nayir's seems to have lasted the better part of three years with no sign of letting up. If it starts to impair his performance in training, my brother will be out of luck with the final rounds of eliminations in the coming year.

"He'll be at the party tonight, then?" Fahrah suggests. "Manari, you should really go. Don't spend your last night in the district lazing around smoking _shisha._ Find your brother. Maybe actually consider having fun – dancing isn't Haram, hm?"

"Wow, is my company really that bad? You're so eager to get rid of me," I joke.

Fahrah shrugs. "I'm just saying, you can't be afraid to do normal kid stuff just because you think you're an adult now."

"Please, cousin, if worst comes to worst, I'll be facing judgment in a few weeks – I'm not eager to explain why I spent my final day here in whatever warehouse is big enough to fit several-hundred drugged up teenagers in various states of undress."

"You sound like your father," she says teasingly. "My, middle-aged already. Besides, is a seedy huqqa lounge really so morally preferable?"

I lean a little further away from Shine, who seems to have fallen asleep on me. "Yes," I say curtly.

Fahrah notices my situation as she accepts the mouthpiece, once again, from Brass - who sits to her opposite side. "Six months ago you would have been right on that – you're off your game, Manari."

"She's asleep, Fahrah – I'm shocked at the depravity of which you think me capable."

"If you weren't demonstrably the best at beating people up in the entire district, your phrasing would get you beaten up," she comments wryly, scrunching her face in concentration as she blows a lopsided smoke ring. "Ever considered teaching English once you get back?"

"I've considered sleeping a lot." I shrug, ignoring the subtle jab. I've never seen any point in dumbing down my language – being smart is an asset, and showing it off a little in the form of adherence to proper grammar never hurt anyone.

"We'll see how you feel when it happens. I mean, you've really toned it down these last few months."

The Games are supposed to change you a lot – we've all seen it happen with past District 1 victors. But what they don't really tell you about is how the Games drawing closer changes you. I mean, your outlook on things.

It took me and Jewel in opposite directions. While I'm not exactly ashamed of my past choices, I'm also not proud of the number of beds that were not my own in which I slept. I'm not proud of the mornings I woke up steeped in alcohol. But there is forgiveness in faith.

Other vices, like being a snarky bastard, have been harder to give up – but recollecting myself into something resembling an upstanding citizen has been the mechanism by which I've dealt with my impending… opportunity.

A curious aspect of training in District 1 is that the pool of eligible volunteers is never matched in combat with one another – only those who have already been cut. Once we volunteer, after all, they want us to be able to work cooperatively but separately. One of us beating the other preemptively exposes our weaknesses and discourages trust. They're putting two district representatives in the arena – they want us to have a fair shot not only against our competitors (more than a fair shot in that regard, I'll say) but also against each other.

There's a reasonably good chance that a match-up with Jewel will never happen, even in the arena, but I can't help feeling a little speculative over how such a bout would go down.

 _Shisha_ has always made my mind drift. I have nearly a foot and a half of height on my district partner, at a respectable 6'5 – not exactly huge for the Center's male pool, but much taller than average. She is comparatively diminutive – but that low center of gravity has repeatedly shown itself to be a massive advantage. Our styles of fighting differ greatly.

Up until the final eight or so, I would unquestioningly trust her to have my back in combat – that's something they beat into us - district loyalty, partner loyalty. But it's also got something to do with a deep respect for her capabilities.

"What time is it?" Lapis asks abruptly.

Languorously, I make to check my wrist, which is, of course, bare, my watch left at home. It's a bit too nice to be taking out to dive huqqa lounges – no false pride, just the truth.

"It's a few minutes after two," Faberge offers. "If anyone's actually planning on waking up tomorrow…"

He glances pointedly at me. I groan exaggeratedly.

"I swear, you all just want me out of here. If you want to gossip about me, can't you do it without making me get up? Just mention how handsome I am a couple of times and I won't care too much what you say."

This makes Fahrah laugh in earnest. "You really need to get home, Manari – most of us should do the same, reaping day means an early morning for many."

"Yeah, pretty boy, get your beauty sleep for the cameras," Lapis suggests with a wink.

I frown. "I hardly need it – these rugged good looks are all-natural, no sleep necessary."

"We share genes, so I won't contradict you," Fahrah laughs. "Strikingly handsome. Though I've heard your cousin is even more attractive."

"That's funny, because I've heard her hijab is knotted so messily that it barely stays in place and only blood relatives can stand her company. I mean, just rumors."

"Obviously misinformed!" She swats playfully at my shoulder.

"I'll go if you all start heading home as well – it's not safe for most of you to be going home alone," I offer.

"Lapis and I are walking back together, you don't need to worry on my account," Fahrah tells me. "Between the two of us, we can quite take care of ourselves."

I nod in acknowledgment, making to stand up and realizing that Shine is still asleep, nearly on my lap at this point.

"Is she alright?" I ask Fahrah and Lapis. "Did she drink before getting here?"

"Came straight from the party." Lapis shrugs.

She stirs when I touch her shoulder, but doesn't seem totally roused. "I'm… I'm 'kay, allsgood."

Despite being dressed up for a night out – short, glittery dress in the District 1 style, hair straightened, makeup layered on – she looks like a child curled on the couch, missing one of her shoes. Very fragile, very vulnerable. I search briefly and am unable to find the other stiletto – I don't think her second shoe even made it into the lounge.

"We can't leave her here," Fahrah observes. "She couldn't walk even if she had both shoes." She and Lapis exchange looks.

Faberge is about to offer something, likely a suggestion that would encourage me to hit him, but I cut him off. "I know where she lives – it's not out of my way."

Fahrah is visibly relieved. "I trust you. Lapis and I will head out, then. If I don't see you again before everything tomorrow, cousin, I will see you when you come home, Insha'Allah."

"Insha'Allah," I agree. "Goodnight, be safe."

As they take their leave, I lean down to address Shine. "Can you hear me?"

She nods slightly, but her eyes stay closed. "I'm going to help you to your feet – is that okay?"

She frowns, but nods and stretches out a little.

I carefully take one of her arms and drape it over my shoulder, shifting her first into a sitting position – though she slumps forward quickly – and then, fully supporting her weight, I set her on her own two feet.

"Okay, from here… how are we gonna do this," I sigh. "Can you walk?"

She nods 'yes', attempts to take a step, and comes close to slipping out of my grasp to, presumably, crack her skull on the hardwood floor. "So that's a no, then."

"Before I do anything drastic – Shine, do I need to take you to the emergency room?"

"No… jus' tired. S'all."

I sigh heavily. "I'm going to carry you, if that's alright. Please tell me if I'm doing something you'd prefer to avoid."

She nods again. Carefully, I stabilize her head and shoulders, then lift the lower half of her body into my arms as well, like a mother carries a child. She isn't very big – I could probably manage singlehanded.

Quickly and quietly, I maneuver my way back through the lounge, ignoring the attention I garner on the way out. Shine moves very little, but I can feel her heartbeat, which reassures me that she isn't actively dying.

The corollary to the guidelines I've accepted since childhood is clear. On the one hand, it is justifiable to kill to preserve life – whether one's own or that of an innocent. But if murder is justifiable under those circumstances, so is any other action to protect innocent life. Failure to take that necessary action is tantamount to having taken that life, and that simply can't be justified under my value system.

I carry Shine home without much incident. Her front door is unlocked – I bring her only as far as the couch, and lock the door on my way out. She'll be safe tonight.

Soon, I may be compelled to do monstrous things – for my country, for my district, to preserve my life. But it is important, I think to myself, as I make my way home beneath flickering streetlamps, to remember that I am not these actions that honor and duty command I execute. I am not a monster. I am not a monster.

Insha'Allah, I will remember this once the Games begin.


	4. Cora, District 2

Young Maiden

Cora Davis, District 2

x

I will

Keep

Broken

Things.

Their beauty

Is

They

Need

Not

Ever

Be

'fixed.'

'I Will Keep Broken Things', Alice Walker

x

I've always been drawn to sunlight.

The facility in which we train was carved into the mountainside facing south. In the hours that the sun is above the horizon, its warmth fills the entire massive space – vaulted ceilings, an outer wall that curves with the mountain face, spanned by enormous windows, neatly whitewashed brick making up the other three walls, a hewn stone floor decorated with mats and a single raised plinth on which formal sparring matches are held.

I was a very sickly child before I started training, not that it's noticeable over a decade later, save for the three jagged scars that run haphazardly across my stomach. They're messy enough to have been inflicted in training rather than beneath a surgeon's scalpel, but that's the way my body healed – without much direction or finesse, leaving huge stretches of vivid purple scar tissue stitching together milk-white flesh.

As a child, there was rotting in my abdomen, and I lost a few chunks of organs to save my life. My doctors stitched and stapled me up as well as they could, and once I was back on my feet, not yet off my pain medicine, my parents got me into that year's training pool.

I was sickly. Strike one. I was a late start. Strike two. Even if that was where my story ended, frankly, it should have been game over for me when it came to the Center – funneled quickly and quietly from training for the Games into training to be a Peacekeeper, as the other culled trainees are, every few months.

They made it clear from the start that I was at a disadvantage – pushing seven years old when most had been enrolled since the age of five. I was strong, but always with the modifier 'enough'. Always waiting to be weak.

Somehow, I never managed to stop taking pain pills. When my wounds were too healed to justify the necessity for heavy narcotics, I started to find new ways to get them – feigned injuries, sometimes real injuries, taking my case to more than one doctor and pulling every heartstring within reach.

It wasn't that hard for an angelic blonde twelve-year-old with a badly bruised hip, claiming it was dislocated, to convince a few doctors to prescribe the medicine – not when she desperately needed it to continue training!

The Center turned a blind eye to my addiction for years. I performed more than well enough to make up for it – better, I think, because of my pills. They changed me.

There came a point where it wasn't 'strong enough', anymore, it was just 'strong'.

But then the home nurse doing an eight-year-out inspection of the progress of my wounds found the growing stash I kept in my pocket, my pills never more than a few inches from my body.

I had a month's leave of absence from training to recover, strapped to a gurney in the highest-quality hospital the district had to offer, restrained so my muscle convulsions couldn't leave a body count as I detoxed. They kept me alive, knowing that eventually, I'd take too many of the pills and lose my life for my troubles. I grew to accept that – it had to end. I hated it, but I accepted it, with time.

Clean, I resumed training. Not the drug-dependent girl I was before my detox, but not the same person I would have been without my pills. They had made me strong – and now it was 'strong enough', again, but in a different context.

The side effects of detoxification never really went away. The cold, gnawing emptiness somewhere in my chest is a consequence of the absence of the thing I once considered my only comfort. My hand still slips involuntarily to my pocket in times of stress, though I find it empty but for a few sticks of gum. They're there because without something to do when things get bad, I tend to chew at the inside of my cheek until it bleeds just to feel something.

I only really feel warm and full when there is sunlight on my skin. But to an extent, that's how it's always been. I love the warmth, I love the gentle burn.

The hours I've spent in the Center have been the happiest hours of my life. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Weapons around which I can wrap my hands to still the tremors. My instructors, whom I would trust with my life. It feels more like home than my family's little flat does.

That's what brings me back the evening before the reaping, even though we've had the last day off and the Center will be nearly empty.

It's always open – the doors don't have locks, because you'd have to be the highest degree of stupid to try to burglarize it. Most of the instructors are live-in, and even the mentors who ostensibly ought to be enjoying their wealth in Victor's Village have a tendency to gravitate to the Spartan quarters directly adjacent to the Center.

The main room, at least, seems to be vacant as I walk in – the enormous mats deserted,

I lay flat on my back atop a massive white mat near the wall of glass, reveling in the golden warmth of the setting sun. The white noise of the massive air filtration system makes it easy to forget that I am not the only person in the world.

"I thought I heard someone come in." A voice startles me out of my reverie.

In a second, I'm on my feet – it pays to be careful.

"That was me," I say clearly.

My guest is my mentor, Claudia. She's fairly tall, not stout but solidly built, muscular well into the beginning of her thirties. Her olive complexion is not common to District 2, accompanied by a near-uncontrollable mass of curly hair she keeps in a tight bun. A very familiar face.

"Just sitting in the sun, then, are you?" Claudia asks, glancing questioningly at the mat where I had been resting. "Back when you'd just been recruited, I'd swear you were solar powered."

"Did something change your mind?"

"No, the intervening eleven years have just confirmed my suspicions." She laughs.

Claudia was among the first victors when the Games were revived in the aftermath of the rebellion – the first from District 2. They called it the 77th Games, though it was really the 2nd since they'd been reinstated.

She was the driving force behind the shakedown of the Center's power structure that went on just before I started training.

Training in District 2 used to be very different – children were culled from pre-grade classes, essentially bought away from their families in exchange for a stipend, whisked off to a secure and secluded facility on the fringes of the district. Parents didn't know their children's fate until the year came for them to volunteer – if you didn't see your son or daughter on that stage, it was because they'd been shipped off to an equally secretive Peacekeeper training facility, or killed somewhere along the way.

I know about this because Claudia has made it a point to speak out, whenever possible, to remind those in power of what a terrible idea this was – not to mention unsustainable.

District 2 gained a terrifying reputation in the Games that was not unearned. Peacekeepers, the product of a brutal and dehumanizing training process, proceeded to brutalize and dehumanize the districts in their charge.

Other districts snickered and called our tributes 'crazy'. We had a shocking success rate when it came to tributes in the final eight. Victors, though, by the 55th year or so, were starting to become a rarity. Beyond the famous-or-infamous Enobaria, we had a near-monstrous man, Cassius, who was killed in the rebellion, win the 62nd games – apart from that, radio silence.

She was able to make a lot of change simply by pointing out that a process that ground out nearly identical tributes every year got most of them killed. District 2's victors were separated from their mountain of dead volunteers by little nuances – Enobaria's teeth, Cassius' literal psychopathy.

The Center was dragged out of the shadows, forced into the sunlight, relocated in a mountain that used to be the emblem of District 2's failures in the rebellion. What was once a tomb for our soldiers and workers killed by the rebels is now a point of pride.

"How are you feeling about tomorrow?" Claudia asks.

I search for the right words to describe the electrical energy shooting through my nervous system, crackling along my skin, tensing every muscle in my body.

 _I feel the way I felt the first time I heard you cheering for me in a sparring match_ , I want to tell her. _I feel almost as whole as I used to feel when I had a pocket full of pills that I knew would make me powerful if I needed them._

"Excited," I say.

"Well, nurture that excitement. Your strength has never been in controlling your feelings. I want to see passion from you, Cora, especially in the Capitol."

I catch a glimmer of disappointment in her expression, despite her kind sentiments – Claudia has invested a lot of time and effort encouraging me to speak more, put words to the way I feel.

The mentors have a lot of control over the culling process – Claudia's interest in me kept me in the pool after I returned from detox. I was a wreck, I'll admit. She saw something valuable in me – something interesting, worth pursuing, worth working on. Strong enough to survive hell, strong enough to walk back into the Center, chasing further punishment after getting my first real taste.

I'll never stop owing her for that – for picking me.

She's not the only mentor – District 2 has had two victors since the Mockingjay Rebellion wiped out the remainder of the initial seventy-five. Aaron is more distant, though – he was the first to win since Claudia came to power in the Center, old enough to remember the previous system and its horrors, but young enough to have benefitted from both the old ways and the change in structure.

There's a lot of pressure on him, I gather, to represent the district well as a victor – he was instrumental in getting Marcus chosen as our male tribute this year, and Marcus is probably the safest bet that he could have made.

Meanwhile, I'm a gamble – a wild card. I'm here because Claudia thinks the risk of an addict in the arena will pay off. Most of us hover around the same level of skill, to a point – I know that I'm deficient in some key ways, but I possess a number of talents that my fellow eighteen-year-olds lack.

I don't take well to nuanced fighting styles – my strength is, as Claudia noted, the fact that I fight unreservedly, without any regard for long term damage to my person, without restraint. My form is horrifyingly bad. But when I fight, I fight to win, not to look pretty.

Marcus is literally the opposite – he moves like a poem, takes direction brilliantly, never pushes too hard, always just the right amount, the softest possible touch.

"So, what actually brought you in here? You know, it's an off-day – most of the instructors went out for drinks last night and only a few have come stumbling back," Claudia comments, looking me up and down. "Are things alright at home?"

She's more my mother than my actual mother is – which isn't the indictment of my mom that it sounds like. My parents aren't as high-class as most of the tribute pool's. A mining supervisor and a geology professor – my mom constantly traveling to survey new granite mines, my father buried in work at one of our universities.

Meanwhile, we've got enough sons and daughters of Peacekeepers sitting around to staff an entire regiment. It's not like they have better home lives than me – god knows, Peacekeepers are never at home – but they have a lot more money.

The theoretical primary industry of the district is definitely the mountains and abundant reserves of valuable stone – but that's not exactly where you go if you want to put your family in the nicest neighborhood. The same goes double for teaching – you're either an instructor at the Center or you're nonessential to the district's function, twisted as that may be.

"Everything's fine. They're back home, with the reaping tomorrow. I just don't really have much to talk about with them. I don't know a lot about local-level politics and I dropped out too early to learn about the way quarries run." I shrug.

It shouldn't matter that much – the Center is my home, the instructors are my parents and my older brothers and sisters, the younger members of the tribute pool are my little siblings. That's all I need.

"Let me tell you a secret about the way we run things," Claudia says. "For the last few years, President Lancaster herself has met with me and a few other Center leaders to discuss the way we operate."

I know a good bit about the influence that the Capitol wields in tribute selection from conversations overheard over the years – that's hardly a secret.

"Do you know what our objective is, especially of late?" she asks me.

"Winning?" I suggest.

"Representing District 2 in a way that inspires loyalty. You learned about district nationalism before you dropped out, right?"

"Not really. I missed a lot of school, you know, because of being… sick."

"Well, the thing is, with your background, you represent something really important to the district. We're not just strong because of the Peacekeepers and the military – it's the quarries and the universities and the miners and the laborers and all the people who might not have such nice housing as most of the pool."

"I would hope so. Everyone's important."

"We're supposed to inspire district pride in everyone, not just Peacekeepers, Cora. I think you're someone that District 2 can identify with."

This is a little more to-the-point than most of my conversations with Claudia – she tends to brush over Capitol involvement in the Center's selections, focus on 'identifying victors we can be proud of'.

"You're telling me the Capitol wants me?"

"Not exactly. They _need_ you, though. They need victors who stabilize their districts. I think that can be you. I think people in District 2 will look at you and say, 'that's us, that's fair, that's a good representation of who we are and where we come from. She came from the same District 2 I come from and she tore that arena and the tributes from all those other districts to shreds.'"

I do want that feeling. I want my district to be proud of me. I love District 2 – our culture shaped me, our wealth kept me alive when I would have died in childhood had I been from an outer district.

"Is that what every district is supposed to do?" I ask. "Send tributes with stories that resonate?"

"I'm pretty sure that every other mentor got the same talk – it's been alluded to over the years, but they're pushing hard for it this Games."

"…then why Marcus?" I ask.

He's literally the least District 2 candidate in the pool – not that it's a bad thing. His parents are both Peacekeepers, and one from out-of-district. It's hard to be the embodiment of District 2 when your father was born and raised in District 6, is all I'm saying.

She shrugs. "He'll win if you don't. Cold, but true. I have faith in you, but winning takes precedence over what the Capitol wants in the end – and we did take a gamble with you, you understand. Aaron always wants a safe bet."

Marcus isn't just a safe bet, he's the safest bet. Beautiful, brilliant, built like a god. A quiet sort of ruthlessness comes with Peacekeeper parents, and he has it in spades.

I'm not quite like that. I don't think Marcus has ever felt weak a day in his life. I don't think he's ever been cold or unwanted or hungry or felt any pain that didn't come from training.

And that's a type of strength, I guess.

"I do understand," I say.

"I know you do. More than you let on, often."

I smile at this.

"Spar with me?" I ask her.

She looks at me appraisingly for a second. "Good idea. Hand-to-hand only, last time we did staffs you near broke both my legs."

"You forget that you actually did break my arm in three places," I complain.

"And you still got the win!" She laughs. "Girl, you're something else."

Sparring with mentors is usually a treat – most of our matches are against other members of the pool, for the purpose of identifying weak links. Often they end badly for the loser, and of course, you don't make it to the stage as the volunteer without some blood victories on your hands.

I've fought Marcus a grand total of twice. He won the first match. I won the second, about a year later. Both times, Claudia had the supervisors stop us before the killing blow – that's what they do when it's ruled both parties have put up a sufficient fight to be allowed to continue.

I wouldn't trust anyone in the arena with me who hadn't bested me at least once – I know I can rely on him to protect me until the final eight, and I know he'll do so competently. That's generally what's beaten into us – keep your district partner alive until the final eight, play it by ear from there – but remember, it's better for your family, for the Center, for everyone you care about if the victor is from your district.

We all remember how much better things were the year Aaron won – my parents were home more, the food was less expensive and more varied, the grocery shops were well-stocked and the available weaponry and training at the Center expanded greatly.

That's what I want for my district, and I want the credit for it, too – I want them to know I'm worth something, that I'm worth the investment all these years, that the expense of all those pills, the occasional vial of morphling, the institutionalization, the detox, the rehab, all of it was worth it. I have value, I earned a happy ending, I was strong, not just strong _enough_.

Maybe that's what the Capitol wants – a tribute who does it for her district. That's what they'll get from me. District 2 has given me so much. It's time to give back. It's time to prove that I'm not the waste of space and resources that I often feel I am. That I've often been made to feel I am, belted down in a dark corner of an overcrowded hospital.

It made me stronger, I'm sure of it. Made me better. I just have to convince them, thank them for not giving up on me.

Claudia and I strap on protective vests, leg guards, and helmets – safety first, the day before the reaping – and I hop up to the sparring plinth, whitewashed but illuminated orange-gold by the setting sun beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.

She joins me. "One last time, Cora – are you ready?"

I believe it with all my heart. I believe it and she does, too. " _I'm ready_!"

x

 _There's an extent to which I should issue a disclaimer - anything you read in the first person has the potential to be biased, misinformed, or (unlikely, but possibly) a straight-up lie._

 _Career districts are unashamedly my favorite introductions to write, and quite easy to power through, specifically for this reason. The two tributes know each other beforehand, and have the opportunity to develop wildly divergent views on what makes their district partner tick. I'm working on the District 2 boy and positively gleeful._

 _Huge thanks to the lovely folks who've reviewed! It's much appreciated._

 _Also, within the next few chapters, I'll probably bump the rating up to M. I was hoping to leave that until the Games, but the next one is getting awfully dark and I see no sign of that letting up._


	5. Marcus, District 2

Note:

 _Warning for hate speech, slurs, violence, and language verging on an M rating that I probably ought to add. It fascinates me that so many people assume virtual homogeneity in the districts – canonically, District 12 had 8,000 people, while early districts have hundreds of thousands of citizens. Give a population of 8,000 long enough, some patterns may emerge, particularly if race/color prejudice is endemic – Seam vs. merchants, for example, though it's still wildly improbable._

 _Not everyone in District 1 is golden-haired and green-eyed! That may be a more common trait of the privileged upper class – they do have a tendency to inbreed (coughcough european monarchies) – but we're talking about a slightly more egalitarian Panem these days, particularly when it comes to the Centers and their tribute selection. Can't buy your way in this year, Glimmer. That kinder, gentler country is only to a minimal extent, of course. An extent explored in this chapter. Not much of an extent, as exemplified by the warnings._

x

Strong, Striking Hammer

Marcus Ota, District 2

x

It is said, someone

cannot change

the clothes

in which

their soul

was born.

'Russian Letter', John Yao

x

Walking through unfamiliar parts of the district has always been my strategy to clear my head, and tonight – no more than twelve hours before the reaping – my thoughts are everywhere. I checked a map before I left home, and there ought to be a little restaurant somewhere around this area. I've walked almost five miles, and this part of the district is entirely foreign to me, but my sense of direction hasn't failed me yet.

The battered watch strapped around my wrist reads '11:49'. It's not as late as I had expected – the moon is low in the sky, obfuscated by the proximity of the massive mountain that houses the Center.

On the night before the reaping, most families choose to sleep early. It doesn't really make much sense – the reaping has significance in District 2, but it's got to be different than it is in other districts. The only unique thing about reaping day, for 99.99 percent of the families here, is that they have to go to the square for a bit and listen to a few inane speeches.

Meanwhile, in the outer districts, they've got the Games hanging over them, over their children – hearing my father's stories, from growing up in District 6, I just find it a little hard to understand the importance that we place on the day here. The parties, the solemn family dinners – like, come on, you're not going to die, _calm down_. Your kids are safe. You've got people like me ready to take those odds and hit that grenade.

I guess I'm a little disillusioned with the whole thing.

I've never entirely fit in District 2. Some of that is for obvious reasons. My parentage isn't normal. While my mom was born and raised in District 2, trained in the former secluded Center, kept in the pool until the final cull, just a hair's breadth away from glory, my father's family was starving in District 6.

The horrible thing is, it was the rebellion that brought them together – my mom ended up Head Peacekeeper in District 6, and during the big structural shakedown after the Mockingjay Rebellion, they did heavy recruiting within the districts to ensure fairer treatment at the hands of Peacekeeping forces.

True love comes in the strangest places, hm?

Despite the odd start, I probably have the most stable home life out of anyone who ends up in the Center, to be frank – they both hung up their uniforms a few years after I was born, opting to focus on me and my sisters.

A Head Peacekeeper's retirement stipend is more than enough to live off of generously, particularly combined with what the Center pays for my continued patronage. When people who achieve my mom's former position retire, they tend to end up in the Capitol, as the old Peacekeeper training meant near-complete isolation from their district of birth. She'd rather that we live luxuriously in the districts than thriftily in the Capitol, and I can't say I blame her.

Broken families are the Center's number one resource for fanatically devoted tributes, but my parents have always been there for me when I've needed them.

My little sisters, Alexa and Cassie, don't train, which is, I think, a good thing. Cassie is seven – by that age I was training in two different types of martial arts, one in the Center and one at home. She plays the piano beautifully. Alexa is twelve. She sings like a bird, and has an aptitude for languages. My parents have brought in tutors from across Panem – she wants to be an emissary for District 2, someday. To learn every language in the country.

"There are so many," she told me once. "Think of how many things could be simplified if you could communicate in all of them, with no misunderstandings – otousan says that was the hardest part of getting to know mom, remember?"

I pass more darkened doorsteps and shuttered windows, silent houses and sleeping families. I wish I had spent more time with my sisters.

There, up ahead – glowing red neon, 'Charmin' Diner'. A little restaurant perched becomingly on a street corner. Probably a major hotspot for foot traffic during the day, near-desolate this late at night.

But hey, 'open' is good enough for me.

A little bell rings somewhere as I push the door open, and a middle-aged woman seems to materialize behind the counter.

"Hey there, sweetheart," she says, by way of introduction. "My name's Charmian, we've got menus on the counter – breakfast's on the griddle right now, we're famous for our potatoes."

"A little early for breakfast," I comment, breaking the brief silence as I pick up a menu.

"A little late for a pretty thing like you to be walking the streets the night before the reaping," she replies.

Touché.

"That's fair," I say. "What's special about the potatoes?"

"We shred 'em like they used to do in the old days – with a grater, like you would cheese. I can't reveal the seasonings in good conscience, because we'd have to kill you."

"Don't break my heart like that, Charmian." I laugh. "What if I told you I was volunteering tomorrow?"

"I supposed that would change things. Couldn't very well kill you – those folks at the Training Center would be on us in a heartbeat, and getting murdered is just terrible for business."

"You're very right. Tell you what – can I get two orders of those potatoes?"

"Sure, sweetheart. Anything else?"

"You have a mushroom omelet advertised – any chance I could get just an order of mushrooms with that?"

I avoid meat and animal products when I can. It's religion for my father – it's more habit for me, since most of District 2 doesn't practice anything so organized, and tends to look down on those who do.

"Of course, dear. Anything to drink?"

"A cup of coffee, if you don't mind."

She disappears with my order, briefly, and seems to re-materialize with a mug and a steaming pot of coffee. After pouring it black, she looks up questioningly – I smile and take it from her as-is.

"Now, did they give you a name to go with that pretty face?" she asks as she bustles around, wiping off something behind the counter.

"Marcus," I tell her.

"And you tell me they've got you set to volunteer tomorrow – who's the lucky lady heading in with you?"

This gives me a second's pause – I'm not sure what exactly the implications are of whoever is going in with me being 'lucky'. One of us, at least, is going to die. Hopefully not me. I'm not sure I would count Cora's being in the arena with me to be lucky in any way, shape, or form.

"Her name is Cora – she's a real stunner, you'll love her. It's going to be a good year for District 2," I say.

I like Cora just fine. She's charming, in a blunt, nonintellectual sort of way. Beat me narrowly the last time we sparred – of course, I took her out the first time, so we're one and one.

It's funny – we couldn't be more different. I recognize that I've had a lot of advantages, coming from wealth, but I'm not certain she realizes how fortunate she is, to look and be the poster child for District 2 excellence. Blonde, beautiful, smart-but-not-too-smart because that would be intimidating and tributes are supposed to do that with their muscles, not their brains.

She's like a golden retriever. A human golden retriever.

The Center loves that. She's been able to get away with a lot – prolonged absences, total absence of technical capability – because that's who she is. Charming, obedient without question, ridiculously strong, easy to underestimate, much too pretty for someone you're supposed to be hitting in the face.

I'm a little bitter.

With a last name like Ota, you get a lot more skepticism about whether you're fit to represent District 2. It's not a very District 2 name. I'm not a very District 2 person, in the classical sense.

"Got your order, Marcus – any more coffee for you, sweetheart?" Charmian appears before me bearing a plate heaping with food.

"Yes please, if you would," I say quickly.

"You've got some real manners on you," she says, nodding appreciatively as she tops off my cup.

"All that time in the Center, you'd hope they'd teach us _something_ ," I laugh.

"Just holler if you need anything." She winks and hurries off again – I wonder what there is to be busy with, well after midnight?

The potatoes really are just as good as promised, though the mushrooms are a little sad – maybe I should have just gone with the omelet. I'm going to have to throw out my entire diet once I'm in the arena. Somehow that reinforces my will to stick to it.

It doesn't take long for me to clear my plate. I'm not a small guy, though you'd think it from my competition in the Center – 6'2 sounds impressive enough until you've spent your life training with guys pushing seven feet who tip the scales at well over 250 pounds. I eat a kind of ridiculous amount of food, doubly so because of the reliance on vegetable protein. And what do I get out of it? Built but not hulking. My size suits the way I fight.

Cora, when I beat her the first time, lay sprawled on the plinth where we fight the formal sparring matches, her sword about six feet from her grasp, waiting for Claudia and Aaron to tell me to go ahead and kill her. When they reached a verdict – her performance was good enough to live – she sprang to her feet, first words out of her mouth, "wow! You fight like a dancer!"

She fights like a _rhinoceros_. And there she was, two broken legs, fairly gushing blood from slices just below her kneecap and across her arm, and at least 4 fingers fractured, bouncing up like a jack-in-the-box to congratulate me – because that's how District 2 camaraderie works, right? " _Wow_!"

Cora is a tank – a perpetually high tank, I swear – but you'd never guess it to look at her.

"Charmian, if you don't mind, could I get a little more coffee?" I ask.

"Sure, sweetheart. Don't you have anywhere to be tonight, anyone to be with? Pretty thing like you, there's no way you're not leaving a trail of broken hearts behind you on the way to the Capitol."

"No one," I tell her, honestly. "I should probably be heading home, though – my family will wonder if I'm not back by two or so, and I've got a long walk.

I finish my coffee and leave an exorbitant tip. All the money I have left. What else will I use it for?

The walk to the diner was meant to clear my head, but I'm back in my thoughts as I begin to retrace my steps.

Charmian struck a chord with her question. 24/7 training makes it pretty hard to find time to date, or even hook up – a problem most other Career tributes don't seem to have, wink-wink-nudge-nudge District 1. My talent for charming banter, of course, seems to work best on middle-aged women.

Maybe I just don't want it to work on the people I'm really attracted to. It's safe when there's no possibility that anything will happen. There's a part of me that's always been uncontrollably self-conscious.

I can trace a little of that back to the first person I killed.

My parents warned me, more than once, that there would be people in the Center, and throughout my life, who would judge me based on things I could not control. It was one of the first lessons they taught me, my father bringing me with him on a rare excursion to the marketplace to buy a new duvet since I had out-aged my old one, which had charming pastel pictures of smiling dancing bears.

("I don't like these pictures," my father would say seriously, glowering at the cartoonish images. "Bears are dangerous, not like this at all. This is a bad message for children.")

He told me to observe the way we were watched. It was startling. I have a lot of my mother's features – I get the olive color of my skin and my dark eyes from my father, his highset cheekbones and straight nose – beyond that, if you close your eyes a little when you look at me, I'm not _that_ different from most of District 2.

He stands out. And as we walked through the market, people noticed. Vendors spoke to other customers first, glanced at him nervously, applied that same skepticism to me in his presence.

My father was the best, strongest, smartest, most brilliant man I knew. And they didn't want him there.

Afterwards, he asked me what I learned – I was too embarrassed to talk about it.

"Why did you feel embarrassed?" he pressed. "Speak. Express. Explain, understand, and they can't hurt you."

I remained wordless. I was only six.

"Look at this." He showed me his arm, pointed at mine. "You see this color? They're scared of this part."

He gestured at me, from my head to my toes. "Someday, they'll love all of this. Right now, what they see is the skin. They should be embarrassed, not you. You'll prove yourself, and they'll understand how stupid they were."

My mom had overheard from the other room. "No pressure, Marcus!"

My father laughed. "No pressure. Any success is enough – you'll be the greatest victor District 2 has ever seen, or the greatest Peacekeeper."

"Hamezo, you're going to scare him. We'll love him no matter what, and anyone else would be foolish not to do the same."

I had already been in training for a year. I think that was the conversation that got little six-year-old me serious. Kenjutsu lessons, private, outside of the Center, started up within a month. My parents fought hard to keep me safe, to make me proud of my identity.

The first person I killed was the person who taught me that all of their efforts were in vain.

It wasn't my first formal sparring match – I was twelve, I'd had several. An unbroken streak, yes, but no blood victories. I never bested my opponents effectively enough to get that nod from Claudia – _or_ , alternately, they put up such excellent fights that she deemed them worthy to keep training, but I always blamed myself.

He was thirteen. His name was Ajax. He was bigger than me, blond and broad-shouldered, well on his way to six feet. Thirteen, but it might as well have been eighteen – he seemed an insurmountable obstacle, armed as we were with thin rapiers.

I knew he'd killed before – I'd seen it, we watched all the matches. Two dead. A girl a year older than him, named Cecelia. A boy his own age, Antigon. Many more defeated.

He must have seen that I was scared, as we began to circle each other. (I would never again let an opponent see my fear)

Banter at the beginning of a match is traditional. It can get vicious, and profane. I was never one to engage. Ajax clearly was.

"What's the matter, Marcus," he began, tauntingly. My expression must have changed as I realized that I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze.

"Didn't think you were ever gonna make eye contact. Must be hard when you're fucking squinting all the time."

I froze.

He kept his rapier leveled at me, but reached up with his left hand to draw one of his eyes into a slit.

"I hear your whore mom is into that, fucking slant-eyed District 6 rejects 'cause she can't get a real man."

Ajax didn't realize what a terrible mistake he was making, thought he was just taunting another boy with an oversized knife, thought he was dealing with someone who hadn't been _waiting for this moment_ ever since that day in the marketplace.

"How much did she buy him for? Or is she renting by the night?"

I ground my teeth. Held my ground, waited for an opening.

"Is that what you'd be doing if you weren't here, whoring yourself out to some old ex-Peacekeeper slut who's too blind to tell you're a fucking-"

He never finished his sentence. As he brought his free hand down from his face, I got my moment, lunged, crushed his exposed collarbone with the pommel of my rapier.

I killed him without permission. Got him on the ground, got my heel on his broken clavicle, held him down as I drove the thin blade in between his ribs over and over before they could stop me. I wouldn't have stopped at all if Claudia hadn't pulled me bodily off his corpse.

"Save it for the Games," she told me, her voice low, tone inscrutable.

Claudia doesn't fit the District 2 ideal either, dark and wild-haired as she is. I think she understood. I hope she did. I hope she knew how much it hurt, to finally hear it confirmed, what everyone else was thinking. I hope she knew how good it felt when the air left his lungs, understood why I did it again and again.

After that, I learned restraint, with my emotions and my sword.

But it proved my fears. It _proved_ what people thought of me, what I had to fight against actively before I even drew a weapon. Made me appropriately wary.

I learned restraint, I learned to dance, and the next time I fought an opponent whose only weapon was brute force – this time with a broadsword – I won again. I won better. I _won_ and I made them look like they didn't have a clue what they were doing, all power and no follow-through, could dish it out but couldn't take it.

I killed that one, too.

All of them, blood victories, up until Cora. Usually when you fight someone like her – solid, brute force, swinging and hacking again and again until they find some purchase – you meet a very predictable reaction when you land a blow. A flinch-back, a moment of uncertainty in their strength.

I landed a blow that broke all four of the fingers on her sword hand. She didn't drop it, didn't stop mid-swing. Blocked a second blow with a bare forearm angled expertly enough to avoid decapitation, splashed blood on my face, didn't skip a beat, nearly hacked off my free arm.

I dropped my center of gravity, swept both her legs, using more than the flat of the blade, inferior medial genicular artery severed, messily fractured both her tibias. She hit the ground and, even left supine, skewered my calf, was going for a thrust at my abdomen when I disarmed her. Laying prone at my feet as Claudia announced her verdict, I swear to god I could see her smiling. " _Wow_!"

My first bloodless victory after a long string of kills. We painted the combat plinth red, but bloodless victories mean the loser lives. Blood victories mean more honor than bloodless ones, but that fight shook me pretty bad. I was just relieved to get the win.

For all my wandering, for all my soul-searching, I don't know how I feel about competing with her, whether together or against. I don't know how I feel about the Capitol that's about to cast the harshest judgment of my life on my every move. There's a lot of 'I don't know's in my life right now.

I want to get back to my family. I want to be there in the morning, to kiss the top of Cassie's head and listen to Alexa rattle off 'good luck' in fourteen different languages, two of which I understand. Hug my mother, hear a few final words of advice from my father.

They're the people I trust. The only people.

It's 12:45. The streets are empty. I make my way home silently for the final time.

x

 _My undying thanks to those who've reviewed - heading to District 3, now, and while it may take a second to find my stride with a non-Career district, I have some thoughts on direction that I hope will keep things interesting for all of us._

 _Every time I write someone new, I get invested in them - this is going to make things very difficult in the arena._


	6. Bridget, District 3

Goddess of Fire, Poetry, and Wisdom

Bridget Harding

x

Let a new earth rise. Let another world be born. Let a

bloody peace be written in the sky. Let a second

generation full of courage issue forth; let a people

loving freedom come to growth. Let a beauty full of

healing and a strength of final clenching be the pulsing

in our spirits and our blood.

'For My People', Margaret Walker

x

There's argument, sometimes, about whether the Capitol that rose from the ashes has truly turned away from its rampantly authoritarian origins. But the fact is, we're not getting gunned down in the streets anymore. My father was barely nineteen when he was shot and killed, a young munitions technician enrolled in night school, trying to provide for his heavily pregnant wife.

They mowed him down. For the crime of walking too near the home of a suspected rebel on his way back from classes at two in the morning. Awful dark, awful hard to tell who's really suspicious and who's just trying to survive. Awful. Period.

So when there's speculation, whispers about the Capitol, questioning President Lancaster's motivations with every new edict, I don't buy in. They're looking for an easy enemy, a simple target, too far removed for them to be expected to act on their words of rebellion. Easy, after the conversation is over, to throw up their hands and say, "but the Capitol has always been out to get us, there's nothing we can do."

You wanna find the real oppressor, though, look for who's got blood on their hands. Things aren't perfect in District 3, far from it. But it's hard to curse President Lancaster and call it a day.

Capitol Peacekeepers aren't the ones killing us, not anymore. The last time we had a Capitol-trained Peacekeeper discharge a weapon, during a scuffle near the Justice Building when a mentally ill woman tried to break in, they hauled the guilty party back to the Capitol without a second thought.

Within a week, he'd been tried with the whole thing televised. He was convicted, sentenced to five years imprisonment and a massive fine paid to the woman's family, and shipped to a prison in District 2, his place of birth.

All this wasn't for killing the woman, mind you. She survived. It was for having caused a fairly substantial injury as a result of failure to follow protocol with restraints, as he never attempted to handcuff or subdue her through other means prior to drawing his weapon. The sum he paid was enough to see her treated for the wound and for the paranoid delusions that brought her to the Justice Building that night. She's since written a book about the experience.

I followed her case with fascination.

We still have problems, but it's a different kind of violence. Underfunded safety net programs, corruption in the distribution groups for our tesserae, annual funding that disappears before it reaches the people who need it. People of District 3 do die in the streets, but not by gunshot, and not in a way that can be simply blamed on the Capitol and forgotten.

That's my fight. It's local scale, it's personal. More accountability, less waste.

It was hard to get people with me for the longest time – a bit because of my age, I guess, but also because there are so many excuses to feel powerless and do nothing when you're young and district-born. Easier to blame the Capitol for our hardships than the office of our esteemed mayor, because a local villain necessitates action we just don't know how to take.

Until now. Because damn, have they ever crossed a line.

A few weeks back, a little column ran in the paper, mentioning in a paragraph or two a plan the mayor's office had in the works. Little change, no big deal. Relegated to the second page.

The gist of it was, we'd be building a Training Center in District 3.

Now, I sat back for a few seconds after I read that, and I thought as hard as I possibly could. And for the life of me, I couldn't come up with a good reason why it would be beneficial to include District 3 in the whole messy Career business.

Aside from the obvious – 1, 2, 3, and 4 sound really neat and sequential, right?

No one seemed to be talking about it, so I started up. And man, when I'm upset, I get _loud_. Because the thing is, we've already got a number of social projects that are falling into disrepair – a shelter for the homeless literally rusting through, tesserae grain that doesn't get delivered on time if at all.

Mayor Rhodes, sitting on his ass somewhere in his massive home near the Justice Building, drew the entirely ridiculous conclusion that the best way to fix the situation was to shuffle funds out of vital projects and into a grand scheme to convince our children to volunteer.

So after years of ranting about waste and corruption on a local scale, begging someone to stand up with me and take action and _do_ something, I had a very real cause. I had support. No one liked this new plan, no one liked the fact that it had sprung up under our noses.

This time, when I stood up and said "let's put a stop to this," I wasn't met with derision.

Waiting for class to start, spitting vitriol over Rhodes' latest statement on the issue, I looked up to find twenty pairs of eyes on me.

"I don't like it any more than you do, Bridget, but what can we _do_?"

Connie, an acquaintance of mine since pre-grades, was the first to speak. Her posture read complete sincerity, genuine concern and intrigue. I only had to hesitate a second before answering, to verify that I wasn't dreaming.

"We can organize. The day before the reaping, we can demonstrate – something big. Something to show him we don't agree. Right outside the Justice Building. The cameras will be just getting set up for the big event, so we're guaranteed an audience when it attracts the Capitol's attention."

"So, what, we stand up and shout a bit before the Peacekeepers start shooting?" Connie was skeptical from the start.

"I don't think they will. I'm kind of banking on the Capitol condoning a little local activism," I explained. "We're not angry with them. Our beef is with Rhodes, it's got nothing to do with the President or anything else. In fact, I think it'll be interesting to the Capitol – like, they watched the rebellion televised, right? This one isn't against them."

"But our parents-"

"Realistically, they should be standing right there with you if they care for your life. Mayor Rhodes wants to treat us like we're disposable, like all the other Careers, a political tool to gain a little favor with the Capitol. You know, they die during training? Lots of them. Tell your parents what's happening and see if they don't lead this rally before I get the chance."

There was more argument, of course. More people spoke. One or two voiced sincere hesitations. The majority, though, were already onboard – they just needed to be convinced of the mechanics.

"Look," I managed to say. "I'm clearly the one who organized this. I'll clearly be the one standing in front. _If_ they shoot, and that's a big 'if', they'll shoot _me_."

For some reason, this seemed to reassure my classmates a lot more than anything else I'd been saying.

Somehow, the whole thing snowballed. Friends with friends in other classes, in other schools, spread the word, clipped the article, invited masses of unknown adolescents to the next event I tried to host in the gym after school. We got shut down pretty fast, but not fast enough to stop me from addressing the tens, maybe hundreds of milling students.

"Get the word out," I told them. "The Justice Building, the day before the reaping, noon. Bring signs. Bring friends."

Rhodes made a televised speech in response to 'word of concerns about the new plan', and some techies from a nearby school that specializes in wireless developments tried to shut the station down. I learned we had even more support than I thought.

"We're not going after the Capitol," I explained time and time again. Mostly to students and new recruits, but once or twice to interviewers from District 3's local channel. "They've got nothing to do with this. Our beef is at home. Our fight is in the district. It's a fight we can and should be able to win. Our District 3 doesn't train tributes. Our District 3 makes responsible investments in social programs and doesn't need the handout that comes with a victor to make ends meet."

I never genuinely thought that my ideas would make an impact on everyone, but thanks to Rhodes' crackpot training scheme, my ideology seems to have found its way in. Suddenly, my grudging respect for the Capitol and trust in the fact that they won't gun me down for speaking out is my greatest asset.

Suddenly, I have the opportunity to make a difference.

I intend to use it.

The morning before the reaping, three or four hours before the scheduled rally, that brings me to my childhood bathroom, shaving my head.

I eye my progress in the mirror. On one hemisphere of my head, my hair is hundreds of beautiful, silvery, artificial braids, sewn carefully into a network of tinier braids formed by my natural hair tight to my scalp. The height of style in District 3, they're easy to tie up, reminiscent of our industry, pretty and fragile. On the other side, the one that I am busily working over with an electric razor and a pair of tiny sewing scissors, there is nothing.

Smooth-shaven black skin stretches from my ear to my part.

Carefully, I begin to snip at another tiny braid, following my scissor strokes with the electric razor. I don't really know what I'm doing, but I know it's right. Man, that could be my catch phrase these days.

There's a knock at the door.

"Bridget," my stepsister, Valence, says. "Is my straightener in there?"

I scan the little countertop – it's the only bathroom in our house, so I may end up interrupted a few more times before I can finish shaving off my braids if I don't pick up the pace.

"Not in here," I tell her. "Check under my bed too, not just yours."

"What are you doing in there?" she asks, cracking open the door. "Is that dad's razor?"

I sigh. "No, I built it."

My stepfather wouldn't exactly love it if he found me screwing with his electronics, so I thought ahead – my change in hairstyle is a long time coming.

"What do you even need with your straightener, anyway?" I demand, a little annoyed at the invasion.

"Dad wants us to go to church. He says don't even bother trying to convince you, you're out tryna get yourself killed." She sticks her head back into the bathroom. "You really tryna die? Is that why you're shaving your head?"

Valence is twelve, not especially bright but very good-natured. She's lighter than I am, being only my stepsister – her hair, when she leaves it natural, is coiled tightly but not near as tight as mine. I need relaxers to get it to lay flat – _used_ to, I remind myself, running a hand over the bare part of my scalp – she just puts hours into straightening it out whenever a special occasion calls for it.

"I'm not tryna die," I explain. "All I wanna do is make things better for little kids like you."

She pouts. "I'm not little."

"Yeah, you are."

"He says they're going to shoot you."

"I don't know why everybody keeps saying that. It hasn't happened in near a decade – people get arrested, sometimes, but they don't get shot," I insist, irritated.

"Can I visit you in jail?"

I grind my teeth. "Only if you drop the attitude on the way there. Go find your straightener."

"Your head looks cool," she tells me, shrugging as she leaves. "You look badass."

"Don't let your dad catch you using that kind of language, he'll think I taught it to you," I call after her, resuming my work.

Maybe I shouldn't have left this task until the morning of the rally. A little upset with myself, I carefully snip off another braid.

It takes the better part of an hour to finish up, but I'm more than happy with the result. Even more androgynous than before – I've always been very slight of frame, entirely devoid of any sort of curve, all lean muscle. The pretty silver braids were the last really feminine thing about me – now I've got them bunched up in a paper bag, thinking I might be able to sell them.

Valence was right – I look pretty badass.

I want to grab a few things on my way out in preparation for the long walk to the steps of the Justice Building, starting with a few spare posters from the massive stack that my friends Tyra and Aramid helped me to create. They hauled off most to distribute to potential rally-goers, to help 'seal the deal' as Tyra put it.

The four I have left say '1, 2, 3, 4' with all but the 3 crossed out, 'technicians not tributes', 'a game is not a career', and 'not my District 3'.

My talent is more in 'talking really loudly about things' than 'thinking up snappy catchphrases', but luckily I have Aramid to fill in.

I roll up the four posters carefully, tuck them under my arm, and grab the megaphone I've spent several months fiddling with, ever since we learned how to build speakers in class – ready to head out.

My family isn't the richest, but we're not the poorest either. In general, the less well-off your family is, the further you live from the Justice Building and the town center. For me, it's a little over two hour's walk.

On one of our many trolleys, it's more like thirty minutes, though the route isn't quite so direct. Pretty affordable, though.

I must look a real sight as I pay my way onto the trolley, with my freshly shaved head and bearing the menacing-looking makeshift megaphone. The driver has seen everything before, barely bats an eye – but a middle-aged woman with a baby in her lap shifts uneasily and avoids eye contact.

As we move closer to the Justice Building, more kids my age start loading onto the trolley. Some of them have signs like mine. I'm not sure what to say, so I don't speak up at all – there's a massive knot growing in my throat.

The rally in a few minutes has me way more nervous than the reaping tomorrow.

Maybe these are the only kids who will show up – thirteen of them, all upper-grade levels, probably a few of them in my year. One or two older. I expected maybe a hundred at most, figured the majority would chicken out – maybe I underestimated how heated the Games can still get us?

The lack of planning is seeming like a bigger and bigger problem. I try to comfort myself with the fact that I've always had a knack for making things up as I go, but it doesn't still the nervous energy building in my chest.

More kids with signs get on. The little trolley is packed.

We near the Justice Building, and there's this collective intake of breath when the trolley's passengers get their first glimpse of the steps. Already, maybe fifty people milling about. I can see Aramid and Tyra trying to organize things – God, there's still thirty minutes left before noon – and mostly succeeding.

Above the square, perched on the roofs of distant buildings like black birds of prey, Capitol camera crews, in the process of setting up for the reaping, are hopefully zeroing in on the action. It's hard to tell from the distance.

I've never left a trolley in such a hurry, once it finally pulls up near the steps, carting my rolled-up signs and improvised megaphone.

Peacekeepers, decked all in white body armor, seem to be circling the crowd. Their presence itself is menacing, but their weapons aren't drawn. Despite this, the growing crowd is deeply uneasy. I need to get up there.

"Bridget!" Tyra calls, noticing me as I approach the steps of the hulking Justice Building. "Your hair!"

"Like it?" I ask breathlessly as I join her and Aramid.

"Love it, but we don't have time for compliments. The Peacekeepers want to know if we have a permit. I told them you did – _please_ tell me that wasn't a lie."

I pull the paper out of my deep jacket pocket. It covers any assembly in the Square, with exceptions for noise disturbances, pyrotechnics, and weaponry. I blew months worth of savings getting it through.

"Who's in charge?"

"There's a Peacekeeper with her helmet off, I think her name is Iras, she's the one we mostly talked to," Aramid explains, pointing me towards a towering blonde woman decked out in full armor, talking to a group of adolescents I don't recognize from school.

"Excuse me, ma'am? You asked about a permit?" I begin, trying to smooth the fold out of the paper.

She sends the kids on their way and extends her gloved hand.

"I need your ID card as well – this gathering can't meet without the presence of the permit's applicant," she explains.

I hand her both the paper and my ID willingly. They've had my name on file for the last several months, ever since I applied – they'd have an easy enough time bringing me in to prison with or without my card.

 _But they won't, of course, since I'm not breaking any laws_ , I remind myself.

"These only cover gatherings to two hundred participants," she tells me. "How much bigger is this thing going to get?"

Her speech is curt but formal. All-business.

"No bigger than two hundred people, definitely," I lie.

"We knew there was going to be a crowd today – you did a good job getting the necessary paperwork in. Just be careful. It can't get too big – we need this contained and orderly. You and your friends can help with that just as much or more than we can, understand? Don't do anything stupid."

I nod. My mom had the 'treat the Peacekeepers like they'll kill you if you're disrespectful' talk with me when I was young, just like everyone else's mother has at some point or another. Even though I trust she's not going to up and start shooting, formality when dealing with the people who enforce the law has never been a bad choice.

"Take your permit – you'll likely get asked for it again. Make sure you've got your ID on you as well. If we see anything that _looks_ like a weapon, we're shutting this down. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Was it you who organized this whole group?" she asks, a little softer, as she returns my personal articles.

"That's right, ma'am. I've had help, of course, but I take responsibility."

She brushes back her close-cropped blonde hair, suddenly a lot more sad than rigidly professional.

"My son was killed in training about four years ago, a few weeks before he turned fourteen," she tells me. "Stop them if you can. In my view, this isn't what District 3 needs – though that doesn't matter much to you all, what someone from District 2 thinks. We'll do our jobs, you do yours."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Take care. Be smart."

She slips her helmet on and leaves before I can thank her for her help.

I return to where Tyra and Aramid wait for me, further up on the steps.

"We're legal," I tell them.

The tremendous clock atop the Justice Building begins to toll the hour, the proximity making the reverberations nearly deafening.

"It's time," Tyra says nervously, barely audible in between the sound of the massive bell. "You good to go?"

"Yeah," I say. "Can you two make sure you're helping with crowd control? Some of these kids will trust their own more than a bunch of Peacekeepers."

Aramid nods. "We'll make sure all of the signs have been distributed, too. Get ready for your close-up, Bridget – and remember to speak pretty, like we practiced."

The clock chimes its last. Silence flickers into the crowd, not quite stilling their conversations, but introducing a muffled character. They're waiting for me to speak. They're waiting for _me_ to speak.

I walk to a vantage point on the steps, holding up my crude megaphone.

"Hey," I say, testing the volume.

It's almost as loud as I'd hoped – I feel confident that they can hear me, and the sound resonates in the echoing space. The crowd is well and truly stilled and silent, now.

"So, we all saw that article," I begin. "We all watched that speech. Mayor Rhodes wants to build a Training Center in District 3."

Scattered boos. I hold up my hand – _stop_ , be quiet, listen.

"There are only supposed to be two hundred of you here, but I think we outgrew that figure," I continue. "You know why? It's 'cause that's a bad idea. You know it. I know it. We _all_ know it. Else we wouldn't be here. We wouldn't be calling on Mayor Rhodes to end this insanity."

I breathe deeply, can't suck in the air fast enough – I have so much to say, now that I have people who will listen.

"If we could trust Mayor Rhodes to make good choices for our district, we wouldn't be here. We'd be in the community centers he promised he'd repair – the shelters he abandoned to rot – eating tessera bread he promised he'd provide. This Training Center is a bad idea – fix your goddamn house before you try to start building a gym."

This was an applause line Aramid helped me with – somewhere in the crowd, I hear him start to clap. Miraculously, people follow his lead.

"Fourteen years ago," I announce, when the cheers die down, "we couldn't do this."

I gesture at the assembly before me, hundreds of my classmates, schoolmates, friends, people I've never met before in my life.

"We had two choices when faced with injustice – sit back and take it, or full-on, self-destructive war. They didn't give us a choice. We got stuck on that, somewhere down the line. We got used to not having a choice. We got complacent."

With a deep breath, I throw myself into the speech in earnest, and the crowd seems to fade out of my vision. Just a blur, far away. I can hear my own voice in my ears, and beyond that, only the blood rushing frantically through my body.

"We're not complacent anymore, and we're not gonna be silenced. No more. _No more_! Don't look at this crowd and tell me our voices don't matter! Don't look at this crowd and tell me that the youth of District 3 will stand by passively while Mayor Rhodes rips the food out of our mouths so he can put weapons in our hands! We're not gonna take it! We don't have to take it!"

Deep breath. I hear cheering. Tyra and Aramid are shouting something and the crowd is shouting along with them.

"Not my District 3!" I declare, straight into my megaphone, feeling more alive than I ever have before and my words echo on the lips of every person in the crowd, over and over, the fervor lifting our voices until they ring so loud, there's no way the President, the mayor, the Capitol can ignore us.

There's no way they can silence us now.

x

 _As always, tremendous thanks for the feedback - I love to hear from you, and appreciate reviews more than you could possibly know!_


	7. Dion, District 3

_Note:_

 _Warning for thematic reference to suicide - if that's something you'll have trouble reading about, skip over Xenita's backstory. Nothing explicit, but it's your call._

x

Divine Being

Dion Cayes

x

Tomorrow,

I'll be at the table

When company comes.

Nobody'll dare

Say to me,

"Eat in the kitchen,"

Then.

'I Too Sing America', Langston Hughes

x

I wonder if these are the happiest years of my life. In a dingy loft above a canteen in the warehouse sector of District 3, I am more content than I ever thought I'd be.

When I was young, my dad used to come home late from his shifts at the factory. I'd be pretending to be asleep, of course, because my mom wouldn't have tolerated my five year old ass bouncing around in the middle of the night as I waited for him. But though I kept my eyes pressed tight together, even propped my folded hands under my head like a picture-perfect angel, I was aware the second he walked into the house.

Late, always. Smelling like oil from the machines, sharp like steel. And he would check up on me, still curled up angelically. He'd kiss the top of my head, gentle as you like, and take a moment to judge whether or not I was awake.

Now that I'm older, it's pretty clear that I wasn't fooling anyone with my act – but he'd pretend that he didn't see my eyelashes fluttering and softly sing a protest song from his time with the rebellion – back when everyone in District 3 was in the rebellion.

It was a District 12 work song. And they're long gone, but the song – about a man hauling coal as he sinks deeper and deeper into debt – was the sort that sticks with you. Some folks say a man's made out of mud, but a poor man's made out of muscle and blood.

My mom wouldn't have tolerated him singing that sort of nonsense during the day, but in the dark of night, after what must have been an exhausting day, I guess I can sort of see why he'd want me to have those comforting moments – my father singing me to sleep – even if it was a song for rebels.

And it's stuck, the lesson – working hard makes you human, even if the folks you're doing the work for aren't human at all. I work now so I can better my own life and the lives of those around me in the future. For now, I'm content with my own exhausting workdays. My father, when he'd come back late and sing, also taught me that it's the people you come home to who make it worth it.

Xenita makes it worth it. There's something about her that makes the sun shine brighter. Living with my girlfriend, under my own roof, is really all I ever could have hoped for in life. And it's rough, yeah, there were some early months where we couldn't always pay the power bill and our food would spoil and our lights would go off, but everything was okay when she was with me. That girl shone brighter than any of the bare lightbulbs in our flat could have.

I understood why my father kept going out and exhausting himself to come home to our increasingly crowded home – love for your family keeps you going, keeps you going out and coming home no matter where you live or what you're doing to pay for it.

Xenita and I don't have much in the way of furniture or space – a fold-out bed tucked into the wall, a threadbare couch, a television set precariously atop a cheap end table, and a scant kitchen all tucked into the same room.

It sort of fits our situation – both of us working, me full-time, her part-time in addition to her studies. We're young, yeah, but I grew up very low-class in District 3, and that matures you pretty fast. She's a few months older than me, had the benefit of an upper-class upbringing, and still managed to reach middle age by nineteen.

The vast majority of District 3 is just trying to get by. That includes us – but I guess it's lower stakes when you don't have kids, when you're young enough to work jobs that other people don't want. For now, we're making do. Tomorrow, though, I've got my eyes on better things. Good jobs, a safe neighborhood, utilities that don't go off every so often. Making our way through our lives the way we do – working hard, not complaining – is very human.

If we have kids – and it's still more of an 'if' than a 'when' – I want them to have more options, more education, feel safe and cared for. I'll have kids when I know I've got a better life to give them. I think Xenita and I can get there.

At very least, between the two of us, a loving home is a guarantee.

"Were you at the rally earlier?" Xenita asks conversationally, referencing the third-page news story that has nonetheless been something of a hot topic among her fellow student friends. None of the guys at the factory have all that much interest – big surprise.

"Nah, I wasn't feeling it." I shrug. "Gotta love that fake activism, though."

She laughs, almost in disbelief. "You're the last person I'd expect to hear that from – didn't you get arrested for protesting the Games the month before we met?"

A friend of mine, Auden Michaels, tried to coordinate a walkout of the reaping about four years back. Only got about twenty people on board, mostly close friends. The majority of us were out of jail in a week, but only once they'd gathered enough evidence to convict Auden as the one who'd organized the protests.

He was released from prison three years later, having been sentenced on charges of conspiracy to commit an act of domestic terror – just in time to be reaped in the 88th Hunger Games. Go figure.

"I'm just saying, Xe," I tell her. "It's one thing to go down protesting the Games, but a Center? I don't get it. There's real injustice to go after if you're gonna put your neck on the line."

She leans over from where she sits beside me on the couch and presses a quick kiss to my neck.

"Well, I'm glad you're not planning on doing anything stupid. I worry about you enough."

"You don't gotta, though." I flex dramatically – knowing full well how impressive it is.

Xenita whistles softly. "Lookin' good, babe. You know that's not what I mean, though."

For the last year or two, I've been employed on the clean up crew for a factory that produces the equipment for hydraulic fracturing. Not production – they've got egghead engineers like Xenita running the machines that actually make the product. Just making sure the space is regulation-compliant and you're not tripping over hunks of metal when you go to check the cooling vats.

I was never really cut out for factory work or for actual engineering stuff – I'm a bit too big, a bit too physical, not especially talented with machinery as my father was. Clean-up crew has been a lot better suited to my strengths. On the night shift, I'm the guy who packs up all the dangerous mechanics and gets the important stuff out of the way so we can scrub the metal dust out of the tile and run the filters to get rid of particulate matter in the air.

Hard work, but it'll make you pretty damn strong. _A poor man's made out of muscle and blood_ , my dad used to sing.

"You don't have to worry about the Games, Xe. We've got over a hundred thousand people living in District 3, and a lot of them lack my good sense."

She scoffs. "Okay, you don't get to 'I have good sense' me when you're the only one on this couch who's done time."

"-only a week of time," I interrupt.

"Regardless," she presses, "you're just eighteen. That's the riskiest year. Your name's in there a lot, Dion. I sometimes just get a bad vibe about things."

"Remember when you got a 'bad vibe' about the guy who sold us this flat?"

"He turned out to have been _butchering raccoons and selling their meat from the flat_ , and you wouldn't even help me clean up the bloodstains in the shower, so I'm gonna say _yeah_ , I remember, and yeah, I was right." She's got that slightly joking glint in her eyes, but there's something very serious in the way she's got her arms crossed and her lips pressed together.

"In my defense, I was working overtime so we could _afford_ the flat," I tell her. "And we got a really good deal on account of those poor raccoons, God rest their tiny souls."

"Don't just be shaking this off, Dion," she says.

"Xe, don't get all serious with me. Reaping day's gonna be bad enough without you going all dark cloud about the whole thing."

She looks even more unhappy. I pull her close to me, press kisses to the side of her face until she smiles.

"Fine," she says. "Are you working tonight? I have an early shift at the restaurant tomorrow, since I'm the only one working who doesn't have reaping-aged kids. But nothing this evening."

We both work, but she generally has fewer hours than I do and spends her spare time working towards her industrial engineering certification. Xenita is a fabulous cook, though she mostly does waitress-work at the little eatery downstairs, which primarily caters to laborers like me looking for breakfast, lunch, and dinner to break the monotony of long shifts.

For now, it looks like my girlfriend is going to be a lot more upwardly mobile than I am – though I've got my eye on a shift manager post, and then eventually I figure I might take some classes in management and see if I can't tighten things up at the factory. That's the way to make things better, really, for real people – none of this fighting about a Center business. Hard work, up the ladder, until you've earned enough power to change things for the better.

I'll get there, though. It's motivational, knowing I've gotta be looking out for Xenita, too. God only knows how someone making barely minimum wage, offering her a life in the worst part of the district, managed to get the smartest, kindest, most beautiful woman in the entire world. But that worked out, somehow. And now we have each other,

"I'm working the night shift again," I tell her. "They're always short on hands the night before the reaping – and I have a shot at some overtime pay, which sounds amazing."

"We could celebrate by getting our own washing machine," Xenita laughs.

"I was thinking, you need a nice dress, right? Something really nice, for once you're a big-shot engineer, networking and stuff. We could go find one, might be fun," I say offhandedly.

She looks at me with wide eyes. "You sure 'bout that?"

"Yeah, I mean, we're doing okay – things have stabilized with the flat, right? We're living inside our means."

"Dion!"

Xenita is ridiculously smart, but her background isn't as stable as mine. I've got four younger brothers and sisters still living with my mom, dad, three grandparents, and one uncle back at home. It's a full house – and I could do a lot more to help out by removing a mouth to feed from the equation than by doing childcare, what with the hours I work. Most of the time, when I have a little extra left over at the end of the month, I kick it back to my family – both to help out and to give me a chance to stop in and see the kids.

Meanwhile, her father kicked her out of the house when he found out we were seeing each other. My family is pretty dirt poor, which isn't the death sentence in District 3 that it might be in some of the outer districts. But it complicates things a lot, since richer folk tend not to be all that sympathetic.

We've got our flat together, and we've been working really hard to build a better life. No one's saying anything about marriage yet, since we're awful young for that, but in the long term it seems like a given.

I really love Xenita.

"What do you want to do for dinner, Xe?" I ask her.

"I brought home leftovers from the restaurant last night, they're chilling in the fridge."

"I can dress the table if you're good to heat those up," I suggest.

"Deal," she laughs. "Damn, all the practice I get around here, they should have me in the kitchen, not working waitstaff."

"Problem is, you're an incredible waitress, on account of your personality."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah, folks just want to eat you up since you're so sweet. But they settle for the food, since you're all mine."

"Dion," she scolds. "No need for that possessiveness here."

She rolls off my chest, sitting up.

"I'm going to get that food started," she declares. "You wanna keep me interested, set the table."

"Yes, ma'am," I say smartly, and she laughs.

"None of that funny business!" I hear her call from the kitchen as I take our plateware from the little cupboard near the bed.

"Of course not, ma'am!" I reply.

My parents met in the aftermath of the Mockingjay Rebellion – I think most did, actually. The vast majority of District 3's lower class was mobilized in the form of rebel forces, obviously most like my dad producing arms. A lot of our factories got blown up pretty badly, though protocol let most workers make it out alive. My mom was one of the impromptu nurses trained by the District 13 forces – as her patient, my dad claims he charmed her into accepting a dinner invitation.

"Don't believe a word he says," she used to tell me and my siblings. "I took a special interest in him because he was half dead, and I accidentally got too attached, like you would with an injured alley cat."

"But," my dad interrupts, "You can't deny you said yes to dinner."

"Who's gonna deny a handsome, charming rebel missing a chunk of his ribcage?"

This is my dad's cue to live up the hem of his shirt, proudly displaying the black scar tissue that mottles the entire left length of his side. His skin is so dark that you can scarcely see the scarring if you're not looking for it.

"Wow," you've just gotta say when you're confronted with the extent of the damage.

"If he ever says I never did anything for him, just remember I saved his life that evening," my mom reminds us every so often.

The repartee I share with Xenita is very similar with that I've observed whenever my parents are together – they're still terribly in love, which is really comforting. The family I come from is poor – not dirt poor, but like, the first concrete layer on top of the dirt, still close enough to be reminded every so often. But I hope Xe and I can keep building on top of it. I think we have enough love and enough hope and enough fortitude to get it done.

My children probably won't have many scars to look at on my body, but I'll be able to show them the callouses on my hands and sing them the same song my father did. It's not a hopeful song unless you choose to take it that way – but I choose to hope.

"What sort of plateware do you need for the leftovers, Xe?" I ask.

"Just grab me a spare plate – it's mostly breakfast for dinner, spinach omelet and fried green tomatoes."

"Mm," I say, taking an extra plate out of the cabinet and beginning to straighten out the rickety two-person table.

"Yeah, Gearney is a real pro with a frying pan – she was on this morning, so you know it's gonna be good."

"I trust you, not Gearney."

"Well, I'd hope you'd trust her too," she laughs, "but it's a nice sentiment. Bring that spare plate over, it's ready."

I'm not sure if you can call reheating someone else's food an art, but if it is, Xenita is DaVinci. He's one of the few pre-Panem inventors they bother teaching us about in District 3 schools – his ideas turned out to be that important, especially with hovercraft design. And you gotta inspire the little ones to greatness – District 3 is a mind factory as much as a mechanical one.

"It looks perfect," I tell her as she scoops the steaming eggs and spinach from the single pan on what is essentially a camp stove and adds a little oil before sliding in the cold fried tomatoes. "How do you bring it back to life so flawlessly?"

"Flattery isn't gonna cook these tomatoes any faster," she insists, but I catch her smiling and I press a quick kiss to her forehead. "Is the table done?"

"Yeah, I've got nothing to do but stand here and bother you."

"Could be worse," she says, "at least the view's nice."

"No way yours compares to mine," I whisper.

She laughs as she adjusts the pile of curls atop her head. "You're sweet. Bring over our plates, there's enough for each of us to have three."

Dinners aren't usually silent affairs in our home, but I get the sense that the reaping is still weighing heavy on her thoughts. We start quiet, her glancing up at me every few seconds and averting her eyes when I notice.

"Something wrong?" I ask.

"I'm just scared something's gonna happen to you," she says. "If not the reaping, at work, in the factory, in the street on the way home. I just have…"

"…a bad feeling," I cut in, finishing her sentence.

"Well, yeah. You know my house was never this happy. Nothing's ever this good. It… sometimes it doesn't feel… real, you know?"

"What, being happy?"

"Yeah. Being loved. Being happy. My dad, he never… never hurt me or anything, but I don't really know what was going on with my mom. And she was just gone one day. And everything fell apart. And I got this same feeling, you know, that everything's gonna fall apart. I can't live off just my salary part-time, Dion. I need you just to live. And beyond that…"

"You're fond of my company too, I hope."

"I love you. I can't lose you. It can't happen again."

Xenita's mom was an electrical engineer. It was seen as bitterly ironic, but tragic, when she was found dead, having apparently electrocuted herself working late one night. A tragic accident.

"Nothing's an accident," Xenita insisted the first time we talked about it alone. "We don't live in the kind of world that has accidents."

"It's not gonna happen again," I tell her. "You know me. Work hard, don't make any more waves. Move on up. Both of us, side by side."

"You can't just work your way through everything, things happen, the _reaping_ –"

"What, don't you think I'd win?"

"Dion!"

"Worst comes to worst, what, guess I'm just gonna have to be a little late coming home," I tell her, almost laughing. I'm no shrinking violet wannabe engineer – the Capitol wants a fight, I could very well give them one.

"It's not that easy," she insists.

"It's also not that likely," I retort.

We're silent again.

"I don't ever want you to feel helpless, Xe. I'll always find a way home, you know that. I love you. You're worried over nothing."

She doesn't reply, just stares at me like she's scared I'll disappear if she blinks.

The song my dad used to sing ended with a line more menacing than uplifting – 'Saint Peter don't you call me, 'cause I can't go, I owe my soul to the company store.' The indebtedness would never end, the work would never end.

But I look at Xenita, the woman I love, and I know she's the only one to whom I owe my soul. Heaven can call me if it wants, but this little flat and this woman are the only thing the pearly gates could offer me that would come close to paradise.

x

 _Sorry, for whatever reason the AN I added didn't go through the first time I uploaded this chapter. Just as a quick update: I lowkey forgot how hard college goes and have been turning up a lot in addition to hella coursework. Check back for reasonably frequent updates (3-4 days) as I attempt to get my lifestyle under control._


	8. Renata, District 4

_Note:_

 _A lot of Spanish. Nothing too disturbing._

x

Given New Life

Renata Ortiz, District 4

x

I see myself then: tense, solemn,

in high-heeled shoes that pinch,

not basking in the light of goals fulfilled,

but looking back to now and seeing

a lazy, sunburned, sandaled girl

in a bare room, full of promise

'Autumn Perspective', Erica Jong

x

There's something about being big that's always given people the assumption that I've got to be slow, or cruel, or ugly. And, well, I wish I could say I never believed it. Same with being from the coast, same with being a girl who trains, same with being dark and speaking a language that maybe 30% of the district understands.

Training used to be a lot more popular in District 4, but the character of our Center has changed a lot since the Mockingjay Rebellion. We were hit pretty hard in the big crackdown on victors, which makes sense given that so much of the revolution came locally sourced from the District 4 Victors' Village.

For some people, the fact that we train is still a point of pride – especially if you're dirt poor and it's the only legit opportunity you have to do anything more worthwhile than gutting fish. Or if you're a rich inland guy and you're in it for the hard muscles and the girls that fawn over your noble 'sacrifice' that never actually happens, because there are four guys from the coast vying to put their necks on the line in for a 1:22 chance to give their families the full bellies and warm beds that inland assholes drive home to every evening.

It's a way of life when you don't have the choice to do anything else – when you've lived most of your eighteen years in a house that smells like mildew and dead things rolling in from the sea, with bedsheets that are never completely dry.

Even then, though, maybe I'd have a shot at marrying one of those rich boys who tan their skin almost as dark as ours and train because it's fun – you know, if I was small and light and didn't have such an accent.

Women tend to have less dangerous jobs, even living on the coast – so training is less the default option for most people like me with little marketability and next to no social mobility, a little more out-there.

I train, though – because why not? My strength can be all the beauty that I need, and if I get to throw around a few pasty inland boys, all the better.

Training is coarse and brutal and unintellectual – everything I've always been expected to be. Stay true to yourself, am I right? And the stipend I've earned every year I meet the cuts since the age of sixteen makes up for the money my mom can't make, having lost her right arm to an untreated infection she developed not long after I was born, working in the oyster beds.

It's sick, how easy it is to just lose everything, here. She should have had proper protection in the first place. She should have been treated immediately. She should have just been able to walk to the hospital and expect that they'd care for her, should have been educated in the danger of her rising fever, should have been sure that even if she couldn't pay, a doctor would be willing to save her life.

Maybe inland, but not on the coast.

Even if she'd been able to make it to emergency room, my mom speaks so little English that she likely wouldn't have been able to explain the situation to the nurses, most of whom don't speak the native language of District 4, which gets less prevalent every year.

It's wrong, is all I'm saying. Every single factor that got me into training is a symptom of egregious injustice.

I didn't always believe that I was destined to be undesirable, but District 4 taught me that lesson quickly enough. From being too poor, too big, and too bad at English in my early years of school to being too tall, too muscular, and too dark as I moved into womanhood, it was pretty clear that wherever I was, I was taking up too much space and people would be much more comfortable if I would either leave or start punching something for their entertainment.

Ultimately, I caved, I guess, to those pressures. But the things that made people not want to be near me made me good at training.

And my family has enough to eat. And I have somewhere to be that's not swilling around in the same brackish water that gave my mom the infection that nearly killed her. And I'm doing something with my life.

It's not all bad.

I made it eighteen years, still in school, still alive, still productive – which is more than one can say for most of the coast, where dropouts decimate the classroom populations starting when the students turn 15, dwindling every year as we're pushed out of the educational system and into jobs to keep our families alive.

That would definitely have been me, especially as a rare only child.

I don't actually know if I'm going to have much of a shot in the arena, but as long as I volunteer, my family gets the benefit of the volunteers' stipend and one less mouth to feed for the rest of their lives.

So I plan to try my best. It's a low-stakes game for me, since I've never really been worth too much to anyone. I can remember digging my toes into the sand and running down sun-bleached docks and scrabbling over pilings, being really truly free and happy, back before I was self-aware enough to think about the future.

But that was a long time ago.

My parents are still asleep on the morning of the reaping. I shrug on a threadbare windbreaker and head out for a run, not wanting to linger in my little bed on the other side of their room. I don't entirely fit in it stretched-out, but I've always slept rolled up in a ball so it suits me just fine.

The air along the coast is wet and cold this early in the morning, heavy with the moisture rolling in from the tumultuous grey sea. In this part, for miles, the water is rough sheets of slate grinding and clashing to powdery foam peaks.

Anywhere with a nicer view, we couldn't afford to live.

The ocean is madly powerful, though, and has a kind of overstimulating, intense beauty.

While I'm properly shod – we get good sneakers as part of our continued enrollment in the Center's programs after the age of sixteen – I can feel the way the sodden sand tugs at the soles of my feet as I run, more graceful than you'd expect of someone pushing six feet and over 180 pounds. I know the physics of sand better than I know the walking route from my school to the Center. It's in my blood. Inlanders sink when they run on the beach, whether it's the powdery white sugar sand of the richer western coast or the grey sludge of the east.

The day is too hazy to properly see the sunrise – greyed out over the horizon – but it must be at least 6:30. Somewhere along the coast, younger trainees are probably running this same course, ready to vie for the position that I have in the bag during next year's round of volunteering.

Female volunteers in District 4 don't face an exceptionally competitive field, which I don't mind terribly. Even families that could benefit from the stipend tend to take issue with the idea of sending in a daughter, even a strong one, when there's more appropriate work to be done in fishing boats and shellfish flats.

My footprints are the only set on this part of the beach, and I'm really the only one in the running to volunteer today. Two other girls made it to this stage in the volunteer pool – Chelsea Dunst, a slender inland girl whose parents have been grooming her to be accepted as a District 4 Peacekeeper, and Nerita Rogers, who made solid competition throughout my time in the Center but never really seemed to have volunteering as her endgame.

She's mixed, on the richer side of the coast's population, very decent. But she doesn't have economic necessity or a thirst for glory, at least one of which is necessary to motivate a volunteer.

There's something calming about the gentle ache and heat as my calves flex, positioning my feet ideally to catch the sand with each stride. I can lose myself like this, running along the shore. The white noise of the waves and the winds rushing in from the sea make it easy to block out complex or painful thoughts.

I don't have all that much time to enjoy it, though, because I can see a figure in the distance, moving much slower than I am running but making its way in my general direction.

Shaking off the haze of running concentration, I reduce my pace and begin to pay more attention to my company.

"Itsaso?" I call into the distance, thinking I can recognize him – a trainee a year my junior – by the manner of his strides. I know he lives only a few miles down the coast from me, has to take a bus to the Center – he's a good guy.

"No, soy presidente Lancaster," he calls back. Definitely Itsaso – he couldn't play anything straight if you paid him.

"¡Qué honor!" I declare, admittedly cracking a smile.

"Inesperadamente, empecé a importarme de District Four," he explains, flicking a dramatic wrist towards the distant dwellings, partially obscured by mist, that dot the shoreline. "¿Totalmente inesperado, no?"

"Chill, Itsaso," I say, approaching him. "I'm sure there's at least one Peacekeeper who'd be able to understand you."

"Where?" he asks, looking around exaggeratedly. "No hay nadie aquí."

"At least wait until I'm gone to get yourself in trouble."

"You're the one acting all suspicious, running around on the coast when the sun's barely up. ¿Por qué corras, tan temprano antes de la cosecha?"

"Necesito algo para hacer o voy a perder mi mente," I say, laughing. "A esperar es más estresante cuando la cosecha se acerca."

"La co-sech-a…" he says, drawing the word out over his tongue. "It's your year to volunteer. Congrats on that."

I shrug. "It'll probably be you next year."

"You never really know, though. Just as easy, one of those inland cabrónes could decide that they want it a little more than I do."

That's one of the rough things about the way the system works – for the most part, inland families have fed their children a little better and can shell out for extracurricular training if so inclined. They have higher marks in the Center's exams pretty consistently, at least, in the male pool. It's uncommon to see one of them actually volunteer, but with the way the volunteering process works, their higher marks mean that if they want the slot, they'd get it over someone like Itsaso.

"Pase lo que pase," I say, patting his upper arm. "Oh, this is coming along nicely."

"You could still take me in arm wrestling, I bet, but dame un año más y voy a mejorarlo."

"Don't get down about your odds, Itsaso," I tell him. "You're as good as any of them."

He shrugs noncommittally, but looks pleased at what I'm saying. My friend has the same general appearance as most of the coast's population – we're on the dark side, for the most part, tending towards thicker hair than the majority that lives inland.

Itsaso himself wears his bold features well. I'm a bit finer-boned… in my face if not my shoulders and the set of my ribs. There's a lot of diversity on the coast, not that most inland people could tell.

"You shouldn't be reassuring me – it should be the opposite, you're going to volunteer," he says, a little sheepishly. "Look at you, you're going to do great."

I laugh – Itsaso is quick-witted and funny, but the art of giving effective compliments eludes him. The youngest of four brothers, each of whom trained but failed to make the final cut or lost the slot to another volunteer, he's got a right to be a little coarse in his interpersonal dealings.

"Gracias," I say, catching myself before I look too ungrateful. "Don't worry about it, though. It's not hard to volunteer as a girl. No es tan impresetivo."

"I'm gonna miss you," he sighs. "But you'll be our first female victor, and that's the important thing, sí? Eres mejor de todas las otras chicas hemos tenido – todos dicen."

District 4 hasn't yet had a female victor, and that may well be something that's discouraging more girls from signing on to the lifestyle. There's almost no female leadership in the Center beyond the senior official, Delmara Renaldo – it's very boys-club, and our only victor, Nevaeh, is about as inland as it gets. He's a good enough guy, and a very competent advisor and instructor, but it's not difficult to tell who his favorites are.

We just don't have the same caliber of coaching as District 1 and 2. They have enough surplus wealth to devote an entire industry to training – we simply don't.

"Who's gonna volunteer from the guys this year?" I ask Itsaso. "Have you heard anything?"

"Everyone's looking at Skiff, you know, he's got the best scores," Itsaso says, shrugging. "But you know Sora Peixoto? He's inland, mostly hangs with inlanders – might volunteer. Not a bad guy. It's him or Angel. I'm not sure which one has better scores."

"As long as it's not Skiff," I groan. "What an asshole."

"Angel is a good guy," Itsaso suggests.

"He never shuts up," I counter. "But yeah, he's a good guy. I don't know if that's a good or a bad thing."

"And he's from the coast. He'll remind you of home."

"Do I really want to be thinking about home in the arena?"

"Posiblemente. Puede darte fuerza, a recordar que tienes nosotros aquí. Remember, te estamos apoyando, always. A lot of us want to see you win, Renata."

My cheeks heat up a little. I wasn't actually expecting Itsaso to say anything helpful or particularly kind. Being caught off-guard makes me cross.

"Te digo la neta. But give it time to sink in," Itsaso concedes. "Look, I'll see you at the reaping in a few hours – make sure you say a goodbye to your parents, right? You're all they have."

I nod. "Sí, voy a hacerlo. Te voy a extrañar, Itsaso."

"Regresarás rápidamente," he says with enviable conviction. For a moment, I really, truly want to – if only so that I don't disappoint my friend.

"Yo intentaré," I say.

He grips my shoulder for a second. "Buena suerte," he tells me, "vuelve pronto."

I'm not good at goodbyes. "Igualmente," I say, and turn away from him as I continue my run.

I'm going to miss Itsaso. He's got more chill than any of the other trainees in my year – you've got Sora, who is decent enough but too wealthy to make good company, a few inland assholes, Angel – nice enough, from the coast, but gets annoying if you're not the talking sort, and I'm not the talking sort.

Not exactly a cornucopia of friendship options.

I wonder what the other Career girls will be like. It used to be a lot easier to guess – we watch a lot of old Games, the antiques from before the Mockingjay Rebellion, when we're on break in the Center. You could practically recite some of the better-known ones line-by-line by the time you're twelve or so. Back then, there were really clear patterns with who you'd see volunteering.

District 1 would tend towards lily-white strangely-named volunteers, trained but probably not the cream of the crop. Picked more because of their families' wealth and influence than anything. You got some good outcomes – Cashmere and Gloss in the two consecutive years – but homogeneity isn't generally a strength. Glimmers in the bad years – sponsor appeal, sure, but nearly incompetent.

In the old Games, it's much the same level of predictability in District 2. Grim-faced, somewhat socially mal-adjusted but in the sort of way that scares other tributes into doing what they say. A little crazy, in the good years. Out of their fucking minds in the bad ones.

Post-Rebellion, there's a really definite change that goes on in all of our districts. District 4 gets poorer. District 1 gets smarter. District 2 gets saner.

I'm not sure what kind of fucked-up socioeconomic dynamics are behind District 1's evolution, but their tributes have gone from 'the ones with the richest fathers' to 'the ones who could gut you barehanded and still look like they'd just stepped out of a Capitol tv program advertising the rejuvenating effects of viscera on the complexion.'

Obviously, you still get scary District 2 tributes, but they're quiet about it. And it's less 'we locked this kid in a pit for fifteen years and forced them to fight other children to survive – you'll be amazed what happened next!' and more 'well, I can't put my finger on _why_ but I wouldn't want to meet that girl in a dark alley'.

District 4 just hasn't had that same evolution – if anything, we've spiraled downhill. And it shows – District 1's had three victors, District 2's had two, and we've got a grand total of one.

So odds are, my fellow female Career tributes will have been better-trained, better-fed, better-prepared, and generally be better than me. My edge may well be in size – you still don't see too many Career girls much more than 5'10, and those tend to be the leggy archer/throwing knife types – but god knows, anything could happen.

It's a little weird, how fatalist I've gotten as the reaping – _la cosecha_ – has approached, but I wouldn't call it _unjustified_.

My parents will probably outsurvive me. But they'll have enough money to do just that – survive. And any place is better than here. And hell, it's not like I have _no_ chance, right?

The ten-mile run doesn't so much as leave me winded. I've been doing it every morning for years – sometimes longer, but never less than ten. Returning every morning to the same peeling white-washed door, behind which, this morning, I can hear something on the television that sounds like the reaping. My mom's probably made some kind of corn mush breakfast, my dad's probably in his battered wicker armchair.

I hope their lives get better, rather than worse, while I'm away.

"Renata," my father calls as I walk in. "¿Has visto la cosecha de District One?"

"No, solamente fui corriendo este mañana," I call back. "¿Qué pasó?"

"La chica – ella es tan pequeño, el tamaño de una uva!"

He sounds almost excited.

"No debes juzgar tan rápidamente," I laugh. "Son mujeres venenosas, como serpientes."

"No tienes nada que debes temer. Renata, ganarás."

"Ojalá que voy a ganar," I tell him, truthfully. My father has always been overly optimistic about my chances, but it breaks my heart to contradict him.

"Ven, tenemos desayuno. Vamos a comer en familia - es raro que estamos en casa al mismo tiempo!"

"Comeremos un desayuno último," I say, smiling a little ruefully.

One last breakfast. And then – what else is there to do, but try my best? Try to win? Fight as best as I know how. Know that my parents are still alive. Know that I did it out of love – not for my district, not for myself, but for my family.

x

 _I opted to err on the side of excessive Spanish/Spanglish and coerced some non-speaking friends into looking over it for understandability. No judgement for using a translation service, but most of them seemed to get what was going on. Personally, I speak conversationally but almost never write, so hopefully it didn't turn out too weird and wrong._

 _I leaned towards some more Mexican vernacular where it worked - I didn't want to mess around too much but I like to imagine that District 4 is among the largest and encompasses the majority of the gulf coast remaining post-apocalyptic-sea-level-increase. So District 4 Spanish would probably encompass a bunch of Caribbean dialects as well, since coastal communities would be best suited to absorb climate change refugees._

 _The truth is, I've thought about this entirely too much._


	9. Angel, District 4

Guardian Spirit

Angel Lozada, District 4

x

If we must die, O let us nobly die,

So that our precious blood may not be shed

In vain; then even the monsters we defy

Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!

'If We Must Die', Claude McKay

x

"Quiet," Enrique whispers. "It's starting."

The reapings are staggered throughout the day, clearly for the convenient enjoyment of the citizens of the Capitol. For District 4, the schedule – starting at seven, a thirty-minute reaping followed by a thirty-minute break, beginning in District 1 and progressing district by district – is one of our few advantages over the other Career districts.

We watch their reapings as they happen, before we make the decision to volunteer or not. At any given year, there are four or five trainees who have passed the physical tests necessary to meet eligibility requirements for volunteering.

This year, I've made the cut – and while I'm not quite top of the class, if anything happens to give my fellow trainees second thoughts, I've got this year in the net.

District 4 isn't quite like District 1 and 2 – we're a lot less structured about both training and volunteering, I get the feeling. It's part of school, starting in pre-grades – a few hours of weapons training and general combat skills that keep the four-year-olds occupied and begin the process of increasing strength and endurance. It gets progressively harder to stay in – if you fail the yearly physical, you're out of luck. People who are cut can stick around if they want to, but they won't get the benefit of the instructors and the classes stop being free.

Make it through to the age of sixteen, and you start getting a wage for showing up, with bonuses for good performance. That's what brings in a lot of the poorer trainees. Including – no shame! – me. Because the alternative for the sons and daughters of fishermen is generally dropping out at sixteen and joining the family business.

Training is just as well-paid, and a little more glamorous. I'll take a bow over a boat any day of the week.

I just hope that the other trainees who made it to volunteering age – eighteen – will bow out when it's actually time to volunteer. If you've got two volunteers for the same slot, Delmara Renaldo, the Center's most senior instructor, compares the most recent physical scores and the one with the highest is formally submitted, the other's offer politely declined.

Frankly, it's not going to be my scores that get me in – my competition is stiff. Skiff Grandin, a well-built redhead from inland, has been out-scoring me since I can remember. But I'm not sure if he's dead set on volunteering. Richer inland kids seldom have much reason to risk their lives on scant odds.

If the pool is intimidating, it's my bet that he won't even bother sticking his toe in. And when that happens, I'll be right there ready to take my chances. Because what's the point of sticking around?

Really, not much of one. I've got few prospects, living in a singularly unimpressive three-room house the walls of which barely keep out the sand and damp that pervade District 4. On a battered wicker couch with my brother Enrique, it's not hard to see the Games as my only way out – the alternative being to keep living at home, snag a job on a boat if I can manage it, and eventually buy my own, even less impressive house.

I've always dreamed about something bigger, better, brighter. Whether it's the Capitol beckoning or the light at the end of the tunnel, I don't really care that much. It's better than here.

"Angel," Enrique insists. "The reaping, come on, we got up early for this."

Right. District 1's reaping is starting. Our television set, provided by the Capitol, is at least fairly nice. Serviceable.

I've tuned out most of the District 1 mayor's speech – she's a tall, severe blonde woman with flashing green eyes and a tight bun, too-white teeth tearing her words to shreds before they even leave her lips.

"Wouldn't want to meet her in a dark ally," I tell Enrique, and he laughs.

Their escort is on the older side, but no less attractive for it. District 1 always gets the best of everything, except for maybe District 2.

"Please," I say aloud, wanting Enrique to lend his prayers along with mine. "Please, please, please someone scary enough to make Skiff second-guess it."

On the television, the escort appears stoic, reserved as he approaches the twin bowls. "We'll be starting with the female tribute," he says calmly, doubtless already knowing who will be standing to volunteer.

A slip of paper is drawn. "Chandelier Kahn," he says, enunciating flawlessly with only a hint of the Capitol accent.

She's maybe fifteen or sixteen, round-faced and dark-haired. Not even a little afraid – she knows she's not going to the Games. There have been years, in District 4, where no one has volunteered. It was more common in the past – after Finnick Odair won, long before the Mockingjay Rebellion, we ratcheted up our game. He was only fourteen, shouldn't have been sent in so young. Won, but not by The Plan. It was quite embarrassing for the Center.

We still have our moments, but we've mostly been more serious about training and keeping our tributes in the seventeen-eighteen range since then.

"I volunteer," a girl announces, the cameras already on her before she even spoke. They knew, too – this was well planned.

She's short, dark-haired and pretty. Stockily built, but some serious curves going on inside of a tight grey dress. She starts to walk up to the stage, and I stifle a groan. _Really_ short, this one. Not the intimidating Amazonian stereotype I'd been hoping for. Something dangerous in the way she carries herself, but this one isn't gonna psych Skiff out on sight any time soon.

Literally, she's smaller in terms of stature than some of the twelve-year-olds she passes on the way up, though she looks very unhappy about it.

"Your name?" the escort asks, though I'd imagine they've met before.

"Jewel Lasday," she declares, her voice much lower than I was expecting. Some vocal fry going on, very throaty.

Kinda hot, okay.

"Wasn't there a girl with that name from District One like… a while ago?" Enrique asks.

"Yeah, but like, a long time ago," I say, wracking my brains. "Not the same one, I'd wager."

"Common name," he observes.

"Weird district." I shrug.

Jewel from District 1 and the escort have exchanged a few pleasantries, and now he's moved on to the other bowl.

"Collar Freilich," he reads.

This one is a big, blond boy – broad-shouldered, maybe seventeen. He's very tall, and built strong – in District 4, he'd definitely be on track to volunteer.

The camera cuts away to a hawkish face that might as well have been carved from oak – a tall, dark boy with an inscrutable scowl. This is more what I was looking for in terms of a competitor, someone to put the fear of God into Skiff and hammer home the fact that these Games are built on long odds for even the best-trained tributes.

"I volunteer," the boy onscreen says.

At the same time, the microphone picks up another distant voice. "I volunteer!" another speaker calls, perhaps a millisecond before.

The camera pans wildly to a massive and muscle-bound brunet boy, easily eighteen, looking like he's shocked he had the courage to do that.

Back to the original boy, the one the camera expected to volunteer – his expression has darkened as if with storm clouds.

"I volunteered first," the second boy insists immediately.

"So you did," the escort replies, deadpan. "Please make your way to the stage."

Shakily, but grinning from ear to ear, the huge boy begins to walk up. He looks like he's just won the lottery. I'm not exactly happy about this – he doesn't have nearly the intimidation factor of the first guy, the one I had my heart set on. Looks kind of normal – like, he's big and has a neck like an ox, but I can take a big guy in a fight. So can Skiff, probably a little more so. The huge, beefy tributes are par for the course.

I bite back a sigh. This isn't going well for me.

The camera follows him almost to the stage, then, for no immediately apparent reason, cuts away.

We're treated to a view of the savage blonde mayor, who looks skeptical and deeply unhappy. "Same," I whisper to Enrique, who laughs. "She's me right now," I add.

I wonder why we're not looking at the volunteer – that seems intuitive, right?

Then I hear the gunshot, and I know that all of Panem does, too.

We're back to him, now – you can see three Peacekeepers moving to stop his body from plummeting off the stairs. He appears to have tried to grab a Peacekeeper's gun. Half of his face is just – gone, like a hole's been punched through, taking out a huge chunk of his jaw and neck. Splintered teeth hang over an exposed partial tongue that's been ripped nearly to shreds.

"Oh, no," the escort sighs. "What a shame – our volunteer. We wouldn't happen to have another, would we?"

Wordlessly, the boy from before raises his hand. His expression remains unchanged.

As he stands, I'm more grateful than I could possibly have imagined. He's huge – not in the overmuscled, thick-necked sort of way, but like a massive predatory cat. I'd guess him at six and a half feet tall, but some of that is the energy he projects with his impeccable posture and impossibly smooth stride. People step out of his way without being asked. I can hardly blame them.

"The show must go on," the escort announces as he takes the stage. "What would your name be?"

"Manari Issa," he says.

"Hopefully not one to mince words – or God forbid, attack a Peacekeeper," the escort declares.

Manari shakes his head once.

Though Jewel looks shaken by the whole business, she smiles at Manari – an expression that he doesn't even attempt to reciprocate. All business, grim and dark and silent.

"He's perfect," I tell Enrique. "Who but me would be stupid enough to want to fight _him_?"

My little brother gives me a sad look. "Don't be like that."

"Like what? I'm just being realistic, little bro. It's for the best."

He sighs, morose. "Sure."

"Come on, we've got almost an hour to kill before District Two gets interesting – go get dressed."

Along with everyone in the district, Enrique is going to have to attend the reaping, ten years old or not. He's a good kid, but probably not Games material. Doesn't really have much in the way of ambition, no drive to better his own life much beyond what mom and dad have been able to give us.

Ask him what he wants to be, he'll tell you a fisherman.

I used to answer that question "a victor", which went over real well with the instructors at the Center, one of whom was also my science teacher for a year.

At this point, it doesn't seem impossible. We've all worked so hard just to get to the point of eligibility. District 4 has a weird sort of culture surrounding training as an institution, especially if you're a guy – like, I've spent the last few years getting used to people my age knowing who I am, the popularity boost that comes with passing through year after year's exams with my record unscathed. There's a lot of social capital that comes with being a trainee, by the time you're sixteen or so, at least.

We may not have the same formal incentives and selectiveness process that they do in Districts 1 and 2, but ultimately, it's the informal incentives that keep us all in the game. The parties you get invited to, the girls who wouldn't have given you the time of day otherwise, the teachers and authorities who let little transgressions slide.

It's pretty great, is all I'm saying. And it doesn't _not_ make sense, the idea that you could, if your family was a little richer, go through school coasting on the benefits of training only to bow out at the last second. No reason to risk your life on long odds when you've already squeezed the good out of this sea sponge. Hell, people like Skiff could probably work part-time in the Center, keep benefiting from their status well into their early twenties.

That wouldn't be an option for me. Not when, back before training, I had days where my parents just wouldn't make enough to bring home food. Our lives were never at risk, but I was hungry a lot, before the stipend. If you volunteer, you keep getting a little bit of it, though not the full sum, for the indeterminate future.

So Enrique may not love the idea of me going to the Games, but I think that's probably because he can't remember being hungry. I can. I'm not about to hang around and wait for the savings from my stipend to run out, frankly – if it doesn't look like the year's lineup is going to discourage Skiff, I'll head over to his house and break his kneecaps myself.

"What do you want for breakfast?" I call after Enrique, who is still in his room, hopefully tucking in his shirt and combing his hair into something presentable.

"Whatever we have!" he yells back, a little muffled by the door.

I shrug, and check – oatmeal thinned with tessera grain seems a given, but I search for a treat. In the back of the pantry, I find a plump, ripe bundle of sea grapes. Perfect.

Setting some precious milk to boil, I carefully assemble two bowls of oatmeal mush, then set to work carving the meat off the sea grapes. They're stubborn little berries, with scant flesh wrapped around large pits, and if eaten too green they promise a nasty stomach-ache. These are ripe, but we also eat them dried – fresh, they're a pale greenish pink, but they turn deep purple when they shrivel in the sun.

I mix the little pile of fruit bits into the bowls of oatmeal. It's hearty, rich, full of vital protein and fat, and with the berries, we've got just the necessary bite of tartness to break the monotony of the texture.

Enrique comes out of his room – I swear to God, he spends more time getting ready with every passing day. He's ten going on twenty-five, hopefully not going to be one of those obnoxious guys who parades around like peacocks with wax in their hair, drenched in cologne.

"I made oatmeal," I announce.

"Looks good," he says, accepting a bowl. "Thanks, Angel."

"No prob, little bro."

We eat in near-silence, only me making any sort of conversation – Enrique is in a hell of a mood, which I recognize with a protracted sigh.

"Almost time for District Two," I say. "You ready?"

"Yeah," he mutters.

"Come on, get pumped. Soon it's gonna be me on that television, little man."

"I'm ten, not a baby," Enrique snaps, taking his seat on the wicker couch.

We've almost entirely avoided most of the boring part, where the mayor, a clean-cut looking blond man with dark eyes, talks about Panem's history. There's something in the way he moves that reminds me of the panther-like boy from District 1.

"He's very District Two," I say offhandedly.

"For real," Enrique agrees.

Onscreen, the District 2 escort, a beautiful woman dyed a shocking shade of lilac purple, approaches the bowls to draw names.

"For the girls," she says, somewhat unceremoniously, "Sylvia Hendrix."

Definitely at least eighteen, the hulking blonde girl has a lot of presence as she takes the stage. Her eyes are clear blue, and her gaze is simple – she's big, but not bloodthirsty. Not a hint of viciousness.

"Are there any volunteers?"

"I volunteer!" A high, clear voice from a pretty girl with fleecy shoulder-length blonde hair tied in a messy bun. She's not of the same solid build as the girl from District 1 – long and lean, very tall for a girl, but muscular beneath skin the color of raw milk.

Her eyes are so dark as to be nearly black, and though she's smiling as she volunteers, her gaze is all hunger.

"Your name?" the escort asks.

"Cora Davis," she answers with a thin-lipped smile.

She's shaking, slightly.

"I like this one," I tell Enrique. "Something scary about her, you get that vibe?"

He shivers, not unlike the girl onstage. "I feel it."

We've been warned about people from District 2. Warned about how they beat their trainees, never let them see their families so they don't learn to feel love, cut off bits of them if they don't behave right in training or don't pick up skills quickly enough. In the typical trainee alliance, odds are always very, very high that when the first ally ends up with a knife in their back, it'll be a District 2 tribute with their hand on the blade.

I wonder what Skiff is thinking as he watches the reapings – because, of course, there's no way he's not watching them. Is he psyched out, yet? Maybe I'm worrying for nothing – odds are only like 50:50 that he was even planning on volunteering.

"For the boys," the escort continues, drawing a name from the bowl, "August Mayweather."

A singularly unimpressive boy, probably fifteen at most, takes the stage. He's got watery blue eyes and light brown hair. Districts 1 and 2 are majority white, which isn't the case in a lot of other districts. Seeing someone brown, even if they weren't the same kind of brown as me, volunteering in District 1 was a bit of a surprise.

If that boy weren't so intimidating, I'd want to clap him on the back in solidarity. Maybe I'll get the chance to do it anyway, scary guy or not.

"Are there any volunteers?" the escort continues.

The camera is already on a boy with olive skin and a beautiful face. Judging by the way he's built, he's not quite as fragile as his delicate cheekbones suggest – but damn.

I've got no real preference when it comes to gender, so it's not exactly a tremendous leap for me to admit that he's absolutely gorgeous.

"I volunteer," he says. His voice is gentle. He's not smiling quite so aggressively as the girl as he takes the stage – more modest and quiet.

His mentors are gonna have nearly limitless options when it comes to marketing him to the Capitol.

"Wow," Enrique mouths as the boy introduces himself as Marcus Ota.

"Just remember," I say, a little put-out that my brother is just as impressed as I am, "they breed them in a lab in Two. He's likely got some kind of chip in his brain."

"That… doesn't seem true."

"Hand to God."

"You don't know any better than God does what goes on in District Two, Angel."

"Jesus Christ, you're ten years old, calm down with the philosophical insights," I sigh.

Verbal sparring is a prized tradition in my family – arguing is one of the few activities that effectively brings us all together and bridges the generation gap when it comes to communication. The snarkier the better.

"Do we have to watch any more?" Enrique asks, sounding like he's hopeful he'll catch a break.

"Nah, the only one left is District Three, and no one gives a fuck about District Three." I shrug. "It's true. Besides, I've got what I need. Skiff's not gonna volunteer if he knows what's good for him."

"And… you are?"

"Yeah." I look around at the peeling grey walls, the mold that spots the areas where the drywall has rotted through, the barely functional fridge, the television that is the only thing worth looking at in my tiny home. "I don't have the same options, Enrique."

He gives me the saddest look I've ever seen on his little face.

"You've always got options."

"Not when you live like this, you don't."

x

 _This guy is less of an actor and more of a reactor, if you get my drift. It takes all kinds. And so we finish with the Careers and move on to the districts. I'm trying to make time move in a somewhat linear direction, so by the end of District 11, we should be done with the reapings._

 _Also, as always, reviews are deeply appreciated and noted for the trajectory of the story! Huge thanks to those who've done so - like, the Games are all about the perception of characters by an audience, and reception matters a lot when it comes to anyone's prospects of survival, if you feel me._

 _(in the spirit of 8/22 reapings complete... which seems like a lot fewer when I type it out... anyone you particularly like/dislike so far? And because I'm curious, are the characters you_ like _the same characters you_ would like to see win _? Just in general, in fanfic.)_


	10. Doreen, District 5

_Note:_

 _Some trauma happened in the past and some wording is disjointed as a consequence in the first person narrative. Also, a lot of poor language choices and referenced slurs._

x

Gifted Child

Doreen Massengale, District 5

x

I blast like a magic cap through

my own skin. So go on,

throw the bones

to your hairy pack and let them gnaw.

I'm done with the meat. Soon, I'll be

demolished. I'll step away free.

'In the Red Dress I Wear to Your Funeral', Erin Belieu

x

Who would I kill? 'No one' is an easy answer when it's the way I'd respond to the same question worded differently – who _could_ I kill?

Reaping day is a bad day, a bad day for people like me who get lost in thought at the drop of a hat or the rustle of a leaf, just a whisper of sound or the shadow of a memory enough to slide the pin out of the grenade. My skull is already smithereens, but I've duct taped it back together so many times I can pretend it's not.

Bad day, reaping day. Bad day for all of us.

Cool porcelain is an anchor for a moment, and I remember that I am setting the table as my fingertips brush over the familiar chip in the plate I usually select as my own. I chipped it, two – three? – years ago, too careless as I placed it in the sink, always too careless, either too brusque or so hesitant as to do and be nothing at all.

It's my plate, now, and it rings familiar where I place it at the table. It holds me here in the moment – eyes on the old clockface, 9:13 in the morning, a little over an hour before the reaping, the reaping – no, that's not good.

The reaping is a bad day for people like me, who already have enough trouble keeping themselves acting calm and reasonable and rational and behaving like the sort of person you don't have to treat delicately. Whose thoughts spiral so uncontrollably and without impetus.

Three more plates. One by one, I set them down. They make the right noise as they _thunk_ down on the threadbare pale blue tablecloth, pale blue like eyes and clouds and the reflection of the sky in pond water. Four plates in all. Me, my mother, my father, my older brother. _Thunk_ , _thunk_ , _thunk_ , _thunk_.

I was always so smart in school. Something must have gone wrong somewhere along the line to make me fall apart like this, so thoroughly not right. But it's always hidden in the obscurity of my thought process. I was so smart. Maybe it's self-defense. Maybe it's smart-Beatrice from the past keeping the me of the present safe. I've broken and recollected the pieces so many times.

I wonder, as the Games usually make me wonder, who I would kill if I had a license to do so. No one, of course, no one. I'm damaged, not angry, not hateful. I would never – _could_ never.

Twenty-two people go in, though, and lots of those who end up killing likely don't imagine that they would. I wouldn't be one of them. Shatter too quickly. Fall to pieces, no hatred searing in my bones to hold them together, ceramic like the plates, unfired, weak. No, I would never. I could never.

But they do it. And I look away when I can, because the blood – oh the blood, the red, just the color red it breaks me apart and I have to look away shield my ears from the screams and the sounds the flesh makes as it tears, so familiar, too familiar, a memory–

My mother walks in as I'm shakily lining up the mugs of hot tea – a real, honest luxury – at each setting. Shaky, not so shaky as to spill a drop. Don't want to get in trouble. She doesn't say anything to me straight away, just starts making up the hot cornmeal breakfast we're used to most days. Sometimes with cheese – sometimes with little bits of peppers. Maybe today it'll be a special day.

A special day to honor a bad day, the reaping, a very bad day. The start of the violence, today. The start of the unavoidable shadows of memories I try so hard to will out of existence.

My mother starts to place the bowls at the table settings, and I smile at her to show her I'm okay, though it's a lie. I don't remember being okay. I'm seventeen, I think I remember this being my age, and it's been a lot of years since time moved forward in a way that made sense and loud noises didn't make me jump like I've had a pin stuck through my kneecap.

"Dottie, what are you doing?" My mom asks slowly. "Don't make faces like that, honey."

It irks me, how she seems to think she's talking to a child. I'm not a child, I'm seventeen – I think, at least. In school I was smart, got good marks, got told I had a good imagination, read at a level far exceeding that of my peers, wrote so creatively I could go into fiction. Loved words. I used to love words until they got so hard to use right.

"What else does the table need?" I ask her.

I know my voice is coming out like normal, but she always gives me this look of pure concern when I talk, like she's just waiting for something to go horrible wrong – it won't go wrong, I can speak almost all the time, as eloquently as anyone.

"I'll finish up the silverware," she tells me. "Why don't you go get some flowers from the garden? Be careful you don't wake your father."

She doesn't need to tell me twice, I want to say, but I am already floating somewhere about two feet above my body, watching as I pilot myself from the kitchen out the door. Not a big girl, a normal-sized person, curly black hair, sallow skin from how little I willingly go much past the garden, blue eyes like the old tablecloth. Normal sized, a bit clumsy, but not slow and not stupid, just careful, fragile, sometimes broken.

My fingers around the stem of a daisy tug me back into my own body as they yank the little plant from the ground, separate out the flowery heads and green stem bodies. The ripping sound provokes something visceral, but I swallow it, as I sometimes can.

Green green green not red. I am okay. No red on me. Green stem, green sap, lacey white petals. I bring them in for my mother once I have collected enough to reasonably fill our tiny vase, a wedding gift my mother received from some distant cousin. Cut glass, very pretty. Not worth much but a little piece of beauty on the table at special occasions.

Special, like the reaping. Though this is a bad time. A bad day. The sun hadn't yet registered as warm on my skin, but it feels like the outdoor temperature has dropped by ten degrees. I hurry inside, flowers in hand.

Quiet, though, don't want to wake father.

I shouldn't have worried – I did, couldn't help it, but I shouldn't have. As soon as I close the door behind me I can hear the television on, some reaping playing. I think of the time. Probably no later than 9:30, though I've never been good at… time. District… 2?

A beautiful boy, kind eyes, dark skin, is smiling in the glimpse of the screen I catch as I slip into the kitchen. My father is already awake, but no sense making unnecessary noise. Though I want to edge back and see the boy again, find out where he's from. Is it the District 2 reaping? Is he the volunteer, or is he the sacrificial offering a stronger, crueler man will pull back from the fire? Could he hurt someone? Kind eyes. Who would he kill? Who would I kill?

No one, I couldn't… couldn't kill anyone. The kind-eyed boy might. Kind eyes can be deceptive. Kindness can be dangerous.

My mother has filled the tiny vase with water, and I gently let the little bouquet I've picked nestle in the cut-glass, float just slightly above the waterline, petals fanning out gently like the pages of a book. Gentle, soft. I admire my work briefly.

"Did you say good morning to your father, Dottie?" my mother asks.

I shake my head wordlessly.

"Go on in, let him know that breakfast's ready when he wants it."

"Okay," I say, always so careful of my tone with her.

Secretly, I think I might have wanted to return to the little living room, to see what my father was watching, to learn some more – this part is not the bad part, where everyone is living and some are even happy.

On the way, I check the time – I've badly misapproximated. We will need to leave soon. It's nearly 10:30. My father must be watching recaps leading up to District 5 – in the Capitol, it's time for lunch, which means we get a short break.

"Don't lurk, Dottie," my father says from the couch – threadbare, like most everything we own. A good house, a good life, but threadbare. "Are you dressed for the reaping?"

I nod, silent. Speculative.

"Your last one – no need to be gloomy. Take a look at this lineup, it's gonna be a hell of a year."

My last reaping. I get the sense that I should feel relieved. But I never really do when I should. Feeling safe isn't a good strategy for being safe. I never, ever let myself feel like the danger is gone. I can always sense it, in loud noises, in shadows, in unfamiliar faces.

"Is this a recap?" I ask.

"Yeah, look – District One has some little girl with a whore voice and a fuckin' mountain. District Two – doesn't that boy look like a china doll? It's unnatural, the two of them." As the Capitol's anthem plays and flashes of video footage span across the screen, my father narrates the action.

"Oh, District Three – they got a girl, but fuck if you can tell that from her looks, another big-ass motherfucker looks like he could snap this couch in two. It's opposite with Four, girl's a fuckin' beast but the boy – can't call him nothing else – like as not couldn't lift much more than a knife. Maybe he looks littler in comparison, though, get a _load_ of her."

I forgot, like I forget so many things, how much I despise my father's commentary, the sick taste it leaves in my throat – all these years it could have been me but he was ready, nonetheless, to call the women awful names and tributes from other districts the most unforgivable slurs. I forgot that part of myself – the part that was angry. I did have anger once. How did I forget anger?

"Breakfast is ready," I tell him, remembering abruptly what my mother said. "We need to move quickly."

He groans – not a big man, not an unattractive man, I have his eyes – is that why I hate the blue of my eyes, is that why is stirs old feelings of anger and helplessness? I see him begin to shift himself from the couch, leisurely, and I hastily edge away. His skin is white where my mother's skin is rich and brown – I wish I was somewhere in between, but my time indoors has made me pale and I look more like him than I want to.

"What's breakfast?" he asks as I eye him warily.

"Grits," I say. "Maybe something special, not sure."

"Special day," he says, making a noise of affirmation.

 _Bad day_ , I think.

We make our way over to the chairs – I can't help but notice one is empty, notice that my mother is already seated and our addition does not fill the placements. It's dread that knots in the pit of my stomach, though I search for _why_ and come up empty.

"I made breakfast with serrano peppers," my mother tells us. "A treat. And Dottie brought in flowers. There's also some hard rolls, of course, but we're out of jam."

My feeling of unease is growing steadily, even as I taste the familiar hot cereal and enjoy the unfamiliar gentle burn of the peppers. Gentle. Gentle eyes. Gentleness is hard to fake, or it would be more common, I think – an easy way to lure prey. I think about the boy's eyes. District 2, gentle. It seems irreconcilable but it works – they are black and fringed with delicate lashes, as unlike mine as night from day. The family eyes are not so gentle.

The pale blue of the tablecloth makes me feel something approaching sick to my stomach.

There's something I remember, in the sea of memories that are just beyond my vantage point, not quite visible. I think it's my eyes – someone's eyes. And falling, and pain and white noise after – after unspeakable, unrememberable trauma. It's in the past, though, and it's no longer accessible. But my own eyes – I can't even look in a mirror without dissociating.

My mother catches me staring off into space, and I know she worries. There have been so many more creases to her brow, lately. So many more wrinkles. She is under stress. I am distressed. I wish I wasn't the burden I seem to be on her. I don't think I'm useless, don't think I have no future – but she worries that is the case.

"Dottie, are you okay?" she asks, and God, if it isn't the most patronizing thing, but warranted, but still not okay.

"It's late," I say, picking up my plate, uneasy, uncomfortable suddenly. Wanting to be anywhere else.

This is a bad day. One year, two years ago – I don't remember when reaping day became an ill omen for me, maybe it's always been like this – but I recognize it now, and that's what matters. The past is gone.

"You can't go to the square alone," my father tells me.

"I don't want to be late." It's barely a fifteen minute walk.

"At least wait for Andy to come out for breakfast," my mom pleads. "You set the table for him and everything, just wait."

Oh. It's like remembering where my keys are, the brief moment of connection when everything makes sense – even though you know it'll soon sink back into something confusing and indiscernible. Oh. It makes sense.

"I'm going," I say, and this time I don't hesitate, and I'm floating but only a little, still well within the physical confines of my body. For now.

Who would I kill? I could still say no one. I probably could not kill anyone. But there are moments when I remember blue eyes and red pain red and blood red and confusion and red red red, sounds like flesh tearing and screams, happening to someone else, of course. Always someone else. There are moments where I remember blue eyes and I know the answer to the question the reaping makes me ask.

I would kill my brother. I would kill him for making me like this. A husk, traumatized, useless, barely able to string together a coherent thought I used to be so smart I remember it I remember I had a future I was so smart.

I would kill him for that.

But I forget. Like always, I forget. And I walk to the reaping, not entirely inside my own head. And I forget again. And I smile like I think I remember how, even though my face doesn't move quite perfectly after that fall… was it four years ago?

It doesn't matter. I don't remember things right. Neither does anyone but him.

x

 _As we start getting into the district-districts there's gonna come a point where we're hitting kids who straight up don't have a chance. I considered not writing intros for folks who weren't going to survive the bloodbath, but incomplete exploration of the world in THG always bothered me so everyone gets a chance to talk about their experiences._

 _Democracy._

 _Also the ages of tributes, in this story and in terms of statistical probability, lean very heavily towards the older end of the 12-18 spectrum. Once you start factoring in tessarae and all that Prim and Rue being reaped in the same year was terribly unlikely. I think I plan to include a twelve year old and one or two younger folks but that's bad luck for them._

 _You may hit some more cop-out chapters where I just sort of dick around and mess with concepts instead of really investing hella in a character, but like... twenty-two is so many, man._


	11. Trace, District 5

An Indication of Something's Passing

Trace Posner, District 5

x

In reality, we sit by the side of the road, watching the sun set;

From time to time, the silence pierced by a birdcall.

It's this moment we're trying to explain, the fact

That we're at ease with death, with solitude.

'Celestial Music', Louise Gluck

x

"Trace, Caroline's on her way up the lawn," my mother calls from down the rickety stairs that lead up to my and my sister's little bedrooms.

Caroline is always over – and thank God, because she's like, something approaching a spiritual guide to me. Since the failure of the Mockingjay Rebellion, it's pretty clear that the Capitol's been updating its policies a great deal – less inter-district isolation, more exchange of information, more liberties. That's cool. To an extent, District 5 has been an epicenter of change, of evolution, of growth!

We're not a small district - a handful of people milling around couldn't meet the energy needs of the entire country. We're divided, as some of the other districts are, into sectors for functionality. Petroleum processing takes place in a completely different District 5 than, say, the construction of photovoltaic cells.

That isn't always great on the Capitol's end - you really get the sense that they want each district to unite as a unified whole. Makes them easier to control, less likely to go off allying with other districts and mounting a whole new rebellion. Nationalism helps the Capitol just as much if not more than it helps the people and cultures that the nationalist sentiment empowers. Whether or not that's unscrupulous and fascist - let's be honest, here, it is - fostering district pride ultimately keeps us subjugated, which is pretty obviously a check mark in the 'world domination' column for our benevolent leader.

Like, I'm not sore about it - I get it, can't say I wouldn't be doing the same thing. And I benefit from the programs that are ostensibly in place to strengthen inter-sector unity and 'Make District 5 Proud' (a real slogan, on real signs) in the form of… well, fun after school programs, mostly.

A lot of mid-middle-class kids like me get involved in inter-sector academic competitions thanks to the promise of travel, scholarships, and potential job opportunities. That's how I met Caroline - she's nineteen now, graduated out of secondary school and working in the administration of one of the hydroelectric facilities in our sector. Recruited right out of school, already has her own apartment. A real success story.

Most of the competitions focus on design (generally architectural, focusing on whatever your sector's specialty is), though Caroline was into policy advocacy when she competed.

Anyway, it's all a massive sham to convince us that we're better than the other districts, but like… what else am I going to do with my free time? Turn down an opportunity that has direct potential to improve my life? I don't think so. Maybe someday I'll be a big enough fish to fight that battle, but… not today.

The doorbell rings.

"Trace!" my mother calls again from downstairs. "I'm on the phone, can you let her in?"

"Sure, mom!" I reply, scooping up my bugling and threadbare file folder and bounding down the stairs.

Caroline already has an eyebrow raised when I open the door - she's short and freckly, with bushy brown hair that she only so much as drags a brush through when she needs to look professional. Not today, judging by the jeans and thin grey t-shirt she's wearing.

"Off work this morning?" I ask, gesturing her in with a smile.

"Yeah, reaping day - essential staff only. Apparently pencil-pushers aren't the ones holding the dams together."

I laugh. "Well, this is one day that feeling superfluous can't be a bad thing."

"Exactly. I slept in till eight. Do you know how long it's been since I did that?"

"The perils of being an actual grown up adult with a job."

She hops easily up the stairs, more out of familiarity than grace - she's been coming around ever since I started participating in policy advocacy in the tenth year of school and she took me under her wing. We're likeminded people, in the sense that we both question things a little too much and pay a little too much attention to what's going on in the world around us, but are also hyperaware of how little power we actually have.

I usher her into my combination office-ish-bedroom - a day bed and a desk that occupy most of the space, stacks of binders in every corner. A few fresh ones lay open, adorning every surface from the floorboards to the two folding chairs. Hastily, I stack these into something resembling order.

"So, how much prep work have you done already?" Caroline says expectantly, eying my messy desk - prep comes first, always.

"I made a bunch of file requests," I tell her, brandishing one of my large binders. "Been reading up on a ton of the more recent stuff hydroelectric has been at. Some interesting structural stuff about dealing with ice, what with climate variation. Hasn't been implemented large-scale - there have only been a few pilots run on that. I think it would sell well."

She nods agreement, leafing through my binder. "Agreed. This is some good stuff. Though lately there's been a push for better worker safety - I think that's something any proposed innovation needs to address. How will it make people safer?"

This is why I love Caroline - I would never think of that, would end up digging through endless piles of technical nonsense and disregarding the human element in favor of what is logical. My rhetorical style needs all the help with humanization that it can possibly get.

"Ah!" I say abruptly, thinking back to an old report about dam safety hazards that I cited a few months ago. "Injuries/fatalities during winter months - obviously they're more dangerous when they're icy, right?"

Caroline grins. "Perfect. How does it link? How does your innovation solve winter safety hazards?"

I have to stop and think again. "Well… I can't say that directly, I mean, but I can sort of link it, I guess. Dealing with ice buildup is a human job, and a hazardous one. Reducing the necessity to address ice buildup will decrease the number of people working dangerous jobs. Boom, they're safer. Injuries go down. Fatalities go down."

"Perfect!"

"But… jobs go down too."

"Let's stop with 'injuries and fatalities decrease.'"

I can feel my face contorting at this. "That feels disingenuous."

"Come on," Caroline insists, "you have a six minute speech to sell this. What's more important, lives or jobs?"

"It doesn't seem like that should be a dichotomy - at least, the judge should weigh that for themselves, right?"

She shrugs. "It's not your job to undercut your own case. How much of this do you have mapped out already?"

Glad to shift subjects, I pull out a smaller manilla folder and show her the speech structure I've been working on. She nods and makes appropriate 'hm' noises.

"You know where some of this will be changing, right? Your impacts and analysis need updates to match what we've been talking about with he worker impact. Your old evidence is good, it'll work here - just tag that card and bring it with you."

"Easy."

She shuffles through more of my papers as I rewrite the tagline of my structure, as carefully as I can to stave off the complete illegibility of my normally very messy handwriting.

"When will I start seeing articles published with your name on them?" I ask her, conversationally, as I approach a degree of done-ness.

Her eyes don't light up at the prospect in quite the way I had been hoping. "Probably a while," she says.

Part of the structure of our event - policy defense - involves questioning, and I've always been good at discerning when someone is holding something back. Which is weird, because I'd gotten the vibe that her life was great - she's employed, doing something she's always seemed to enjoy?

"What do you mean?"

"It's not always the noble sort of work it seems like in competition, y'know?"

"Not really, no."

She laughs. "You're cross-examining me. Nice. Fine, I'll try to…. like, it's not bad, right? It pays the bills. I have my own little apartment, now. I eat alright, especially if I sneak into company luncheons. But… I know this may seem strange, when you're in the thick of it, advocating for the policies that will change the world, but like… it's so frustrating sometimes."

I'm not sure I can really imagine anything on the other side of the present moment - I'm sixteen, soon to be seventeen, the rest of the year's worth of school plus another to come ahead of me, doing exactly this. Classwork, speech prep, research, advocacy. For now - and for any future I can really imagine - that's all.

Like, Caroline and I and a bunch of other competitors can talk a good game about how the Capitol is authoritarianism wearing a slightly palatable mask, but in the end I like to think that I'll be able to put all of these thoughts to good use. I'll be able to change something, be able to help someone, keep doing what I'm doing - implement those policies, save those workers who would otherwise lose their lives along with their footing on a frozen-over dam.

"I guess a few months in the real world really crushes all of that optimism," Caroline says, reading my thoughts. "I always felt like I would keep moving up - like, I was a star in policy advocacy, right? But now I bring a man coffee every morning and make sure his files are in order and take notes on his meetings. I took five steps down."

My expression must be purely appalled, because she hastily adds, "But it beats the alternative, right? At least I have a shot at moving up. A lot of people would kill for that. It just requires me to pay my dues first. It'll be a while before I'm signing off on those policy briefings, is all."

I think I sort of understand where she's coming from, but there's a part of me that doesn't quite believe it's _that_ much… like that. Could just be unwillingness.

Something even darker seems to flash across her face, furrowing her brow and turning her emotions into something inscrutable.

"Do you ever think about how the same Capitol that funds all that ridiculous fun competition stuff… well, fun is a generous word, but… do you ever think about how two of us from District Five die almost every year? How the best case scenario is only one of them coming home? How fucked up is that."

"It's your last year of eligibility," I suggest, perhaps a little too brightly.

I do think about it - of course I think about it. Everyone thinks about it. But there's this undercurrent of confusion. Obviously, we're going to pick up on the hypocrisy of training us to be the rising stars in our district's industry and then putting our names in a drawing for randomized death. But it's like… they know that we're going to know.

We learn about all of these things that are just not quite fair, and we also learn how powerless we are to stop them. Any time I'm reading into a factory's construction or employment records and I learn how much of the dam is Capitol-owned or how many of the supervisors are either Capitol-trained or originated, I get this weird tight feeling in the back of my throat - like all the stuff I'm doing is a wheel in a rat's cage, to distract it with exercise and amuse its owner while simultaneously occupying its attention so it can't escape the cage.

But the rat would never get out of the cage, even if it was bored and laying around. It might put up a fight though, and be really annoying to the person who owned it, but the rat could never win - the rat could never mount an effective uprising and restore its… divine equality to humans? I guess the metaphor part fails.

All this emphasis on helping the district, being the best in the district, making District 5 great, though - it just feels like a smokescreen to make us a little easier to control, maybe a little more productive or entertaining to the people who hold real power.

I don't say any of that to Caroline, though - even though I'm certain she's thought it too.

Instead, I smile and ask, "how are you going to celebrate finally being out of the pool?"

She slumps a little, gives me a look that is nothing short of defeated.

"Probably go home and get a jump on my work for tomorrow. Maybe have a drink. Sometimes it feels like that's all there is to do."

"At least you'll be free of the thing."

"Yeah," she says, the corner of her mouth quirking up in a half-smile. "Fingers crossed, right?"

"Fingers crossed," I agree.

I'm not really sure what future there is for me, or for any of us. Here, or anywhere. Free will isn't an illusion - I've never been able to believe that - but living in a place like District 5, freedom is definitively illusory.

That's a lot to think about on the way to the reaping.

"Should we head out?" I ask Caroline, passing her my updated outline for one last look over. "We can grab some food from the kitchen - I think we have some apples."

Caroline looks grateful and nods, skimming over my notes.

"This looks a lot better," she tells me. "You're going to do great in competition."

Taking with us a pair of bright yellow apples, it almost feels like we're on some sort of jaunt out to a picnic - the sun is shining and the streets are filled with people, even if the atmosphere is not quite festive.

I just wonder how long it will last. I wonder how long any of this can last - how long it will be before the smoke screens of district nationalism and unity start to fall away, until the rat stops spinning at its wheel and tries to gnaw its way out of the cage again.

That never works out well for the rat.

x

 _I, uh, don't have excuses, except for having two jobs on top of being a student and a research fellowship this summer... I've been busy, but I'm trying to prioritize writing a little more. Lifestyle upgrade! I just need something to keep me occupied, so this could work as a thing._

 _Let me know if you're actually interested in still reading - it helps!_


	12. Yuna, District 6

Knotted Greens

Yuna Watanabe, District 6

x

Suffering is alchemy, change is God

Now you droop your head, heavy with rust

'Peony', Marilyn Chin

x

With the destruction of District 12 during the Mockingjay Rebellion, something about the character of District 6 changed – we went from the inner half of the districts to the outer half, for starters. Devolved from a more-or-less universally middle class district to one with among the greatest income gaps. Nearly two decades later, bare cinderblock walls in our slums are still gouged deeply and scarred black with the aftermath of the heavy bombings we endured as a consequence of our part in the violence.

Of course, none of that affects me much. My parents are both doctors – they were evacuated to the Capitol to tend to wounded soldiers long before the first hovercrafts set our district alight. Advantages of life in the district responsible for transportation – if you can afford the train out, you can get out _fast_.

The medical profession in District 6 has always been among the most lucrative, and that's one thing that didn't change after the rebellion failed. Our status as a hub for every kind of vehicle makes healthcare mobile and thus profitable. The rich will pay through the nose for the promise of health and beauty - and we deliver. Drug addicts are a gold mine if one has proper licensing. Both of my parents do. Eventually, I will too – though I've been studying as a pharmacist rather than as a physician.

You'd think their legacy would be hard to live up to, as the eldest child – among the wealthiest couples in the district, with clients ranging from Capitol socialites to morphling addicts who sell organs to bankroll their dependencies. They're picture-perfect District 6. But it's not that bad, really. The pressure to succeed is a way of life here - not to achieve ostentatious fame, but to put one's head down and work hard and become whatever your station demands of you.

We're still recovering from the rebellion, of course, but what a model of recovery we are. As stoic and emotionless as the stereotype demands. We grind out more hours of labor than most districts. Maintain one of the lowest crime rates. It's not glamorous - anything but, actually. But there's honor in hard work.

Not sure if I can really feel that pride-in-strenuous-labor vibe when the hardest part of my shift is opening difficult bottles, but like - the sentiment is genuine.

I'm not ungrateful for my lot in life. I know I'm very fortunate to live in a spacious house, well-cared-for, clean and healthy. That doesn't mean life is _easy_ , obviously. But I know there are some struggles that I just can't appreciate when food seems to appear in our cupboards of its own volition and clean water flows out of more than one tap in our house.

That said, even on reaping day I find myself wrenched out of bed by my alarm clock at 6:00 in the morning - at the end of one's final year in high school, generally at the age of 18 - even specialized-track pharmacology students like myself have to sit for the PCA. It's a grueling five-hour exam that requires an encyclopedic knowledge of organic and inorganic compounds, physiology, pharmaceutical procedure, and a shocking amount of math.

I'll be sitting for mine along with the other pharma students in my sector of the District 6 school system, and I'll be fucked if I'm not going to pass that exam with higher marks than they've ever seen.

It's not easy being the older sibling in a house full of overachievers - pressure to succeed is compounded by pressure to represent some paragon of replicable virtue for my younger brother and sister. But I got lucky in that who I'm expected to be lined up really well with who I _want_ to be. I think. If that's something you can know.

Parental expectations and my personal desires intertwine perhaps too often for coincidence - but I'll worry about that after I've obliterated the Pharmacological Competency Assessment.

I don't let myself stay in bed more than a minute or two after my alarm sounds. Time is money. I'm running out of time to prepare for the exam - not that I haven't been dedicating hours to it per day for the last half decade or so, in between work experience at my parents' hospital and general ed classes.

This morning I'm doing a final review of market immunosuppressants down at the library, focusing on the biologicals but also running through the nontraditionals that we prescribe in emergency cases - prednisone, which has been around for centuries, along with several classes of antibiotics and a few folic acid reuptake inhibitors that have shown success in the past and still see sporadic use in the treatment of degenerative autoimmune disorders. After the reaping I'll hit allergies, re-re-re review functional groups, and get myself set up for painkillers tomorrow.

The way organic and inorganic compounds interact has always seemed poetic to me - like physics, it just makes sense if you think about it for long enough and understand the building blocks in the form of functional groups and atomic structure. It just works for me.

I have full confidence that I could take the exam this morning and pass, but I don't just want to pass - I want to do perfectly. I want to know everything.

The house is already awake as I make my way downstairs for a quick cup of tea and the breakfast our housekeeper cooks every morning - a dish integrating eggs, seaweed, and pink-fleshed fish over a bed of rice. Our parents thought that having Namie in the house might somehow impart a measure of District 6's distinctive culture to myself and my younger siblings while growing up. The food is good, but I'm not sure how much I've learned. Namie is kind but disaffected. She has a strong accent, and Panem's language sounds sharp and foreign on her tongue.

Mari and Hideo are already nearly done by the time I got downstairs - they are quiet and polite, more genuine about it than I feel at times, though that may just be their young ages. I join them at the long table, pushed up near the window, where we always eat breakfast, and find my own bowl waiting.

The fish is cooked delicately, no skin on, evenly colored throughout. Light and flaky, bite by bite. Perfectly seasoned, though I couldn't exactly put my finger on any of the spices were I asked - that sometimes strikes me as strange, that I could pinpoint the difference in pegallated as opposed to nonpegallated monoclonal antibodies and their utility as a therapy for autoimmune disorders, but there are parts of my heritage that are just beyond my understanding.

Wealth makes us more like the Capitol than like District 6 - we move further away from our roots with every dollar. If you can afford to live luxuriantly, why wouldn't you? For all their hired help and the traditional paintings on the walls, my parents' efforts to teach us culture feel hollow. That unsettles me in a way I also don't have words for.

"Ohayou gozaimasu," Namie says, soft and pleasant as she wafts back into the little breakfast nook

"Good morning," I reply, a little awkward.

She notices - or maybe I'm making it up, how Namie can always see through me, ever since I was a child, any mess I neglected to clean up or lie I told. Every time, I'd swear she gave me this almost pitying look, and I'd feel a sort of intense shame that never accompanied a scolding.

"Do you have plans today?" She asks. In a language I speak, thank god.

"Heading down to the library," I tell her, though she could have guessed that - it's become completely routine, there every morning before eight.

"Is there anything I could do for you?"

It's reaping day. I remember this, and find myself inspecting the nearly imperceptible lines around Namie's eyes. I realize that I have no idea how old she is. No idea if she has children, whether they will be eligible today. Guilt, shame - she doesn't even have to give me the look.

"No, nothing - thank you. How are you this morning?"

"It's reaping day. Never a happy occasion. But I'm well."

This is the most we've spoken in months.

"You don't… have anyone..?" I can't even bring myself to ask the full question, don't know what's making me so impulsive - Hideo actually looks up, eyes me like he knows something uncomfortable is going on.

Namie's gaze flutters down, just for a second. "Next year," she says.

"I'm sorry," I say, idiotically, I'm sure.

"Don't be. That's the price for all of this - this peace," she says.

I think I remember an old conversation with my parents - at least one of Namie's parents died during the Mockingjay Rebellion, fighting against the Capitol. The other was badly injured, disabled and left in her care until an early and sad death.

They discussed this without much emotion - they thought it indicative of her capabilities as a caregiver, that she had a good temperament for it. Like they were talking about a horse.

I know that medical work requires a certain degree of disaffection, and I know that I have adopted that veneer myself, at least a little, but it still is just a bit sickening, to look in that mirror of what I might be - what I am on track to become. _What I_ want _to become_ , I remind myself.

She notices my pause, of course, and adds - "But it will be your last year, too - good to get it off your chest, you'll breathe better during your exams."

"Yeah," I say.

Namie smiles - it doesn't reach her eyes - and takes my little siblings' dishes. "Hideo, Mari," she says, "go get your books and wait by the door."

They'll likely be doing their reading study in the park today - Namie doesn't even need to explain. Hideo and Mari obey without asking questions, trundling up the stairs in their tiny socked feet.

"Good luck today, Yuna," she tells me. "Be smart. Be safe."

I half-nod, half-awkwardly-bow. It seems appropriate, but I don't really know how to do it. As she floats out of the room, I clear and clean my own bowl, setting it on the little drying rack by the sink.

My own books wait in a canvas bag by the door - I pull on a soft grey cardigan over my loose-fitting pale brown dress and slip on my sandals. Have to look presentable for the reaping later, and also just in general as the library is a common place to spot acquaintances.

It's only a few blocks down, and I slip out the door before Hideo and Mari make it back downstairs, without saying goodbye to them or to Namie. I'll see them this afternoon, after the reaping - in other districts, earlier ones, I believe it may have already happened.

The Careers, I think idly as I walk, might already have volunteered - might already be loaded onto one of the trains that we build here, in District 6. I contemplate finding a little cafe with a television going where I can check the progress, but that seems excessively complicit with something depressing.

Besides, I have no doubt that I'll meet one or two people before the reaping who will be willing to fill me in.

My friend situation isn't exactly amazing - never was, but has gotten kind of in the pits lately with the competitive nature of the pharma track. Most of the people I would want to talk to, I don't ever intend to speak to again. At least for the moment.

About a year ago, a girl I considered a very close friend lodged an accusation of cheating against me on an exam - one of my perfect scores, on the organic chemistry subunit. I was vindicated, but not quickly enough to have left our entire friend group picking sides.

Most sided against me. That was… surprising, to say the least. And though they were appropriately contrite about the whole thing, their apologies didn't come fast enough.

I have learned, over the last year, that I can hold a grudge to the end of the earth.

Which is unfortunate, because my misery is entirely of my own making - I can't blame most of them for it, any more, because it's me making the conscious decision to stay angry and keep hating so many people over it.

Anri - who reported me - may not have ruined my life the way she thought she would, but she set into motion a series of events that would let me do a pretty good job of ruining it for myself.

No big deal, though. I have other friends. Not as many, but I'm not alone. And even if I was, I'm often happier that way.

There's no bliss as great as finding an empty table near a window in the library. And today, it seems a little less crowded than usual - I slip through easily and find one of my favorite seats right away.

For nearly an hour, no one bothers me - I page quietly through the textbook, focusing specifically on the chapter on diagnostic procedures for allergies.

It's quiet and still enough for me to perceive someone's approach before they announce themselves.

"Heyyyy, Yuna!" A familiar voice. Fuck.

I turn away from my book, careful to keep my face a frozen mask of indifference.

"Ben," I say simply, hoping that the single syllable does not sound too much like I'm grinding my teeth over it.

He's twenty, not quite two years my senior. All the appearance of District 6 elite - high-planed cheekbones, soft features, dramatic brows. Carries himself very distinctively, though - never in my personal space - much too clever for that, always hovering right at the edge of what is acceptable, infuriatingly always right about what that is. Tall and well-dressed, from one of the families in the district easily as wealthy as my own, if not more so.

Our parents are good friends, and I know very well that they've been holding out hope for years that Ben and I would someday stop fighting constantly and realize our deep and abiding love for each other, get married, and raise dozens of brilliant and wealthy babies.

"Last minute cramming before the big exam?" he asks, eyeing my open book. "Y'know, that's not an effective way to retain information."

I'm not going to let myself get defensive. He's a like a taxi catching sight of a stranded Capitolite when he thinks he's hit a nerve.

"Don't you know it," I say. "But whatever works - I don't want to end up getting a job through pure nepotism."

He shrugs, as if to say 'fair'. Ben currently designs warehouses for his father's company, Sonohara Steel, and yeah, he's good at it, but come on - no one gets a job that good out of the gate without some paternal meddling involved.

"Wait, so is that you saying, on-record, that you have no plans to keep working at your parents' hospital? Can I get that in writing?"

"What do you want, Ben?"

"Come on, can't your childhood best friend express a little concern on finding you studying in the library on reaping day morning without having an agenda?"

His smile hasn't wavered throughout the entire exchange - he is absolutely maddening.

"Not in my experience, no. What are you even doing here? They teach basic literacy classes on Wednesday mornings, you're a few days early."

" _Ouch_ , damn. Nah, I'm meeting up with someone. Just thought I'd say hi while I waited. Maybe make her a little jealous when she sees me talking to a pretty girl."

My eyes must have rolled all the way back into my skull, because he starts laughing again like I've made a terrific joke.

"Ben, why are you such an asshole?"

"Yuna, why are you torturing yourself studying for a test that you already know you're going to pass?"

I glare in response. "Since when have you thought I was pretty?"

"Well, my parents are actually having a party tonight, and I was going to invite you to join us. It's your last reaping, right? A little welcome to the other side of things."

"That didn't even come close to answering my question."

"Fine, yeah, I said you're cute, I'm trying to butter you up so you'll actually show. My parents think I need to spend more time with serious girls."

"So I'm a prop."

"No, so you're my date! And my friend. Friend-date."

"I need to study."

"But will you show?"

I vaguely remember my parents mentioning this party - while I could probably get out of it by insisting that I need to study, it might be fun. I don't like to say it aloud, but I kind of enjoy matching wits with Ben, even though I know it would never lead to anything other than our mildly combative friendship.

"Yes, now go meet whatever 'less serious' girl you're fucking and leave me alone," I say.

He looks genuinely hurt - I almost feel bad.

"Hey, you know I'm not like that."

I shrug. "Don't keep her waiting."

My life is on the precipice of something massive, I know it - with the PCA coming up, with my parents pushing me towards a future I'm not sure I'm into, with school ending and my career beginning - there are big changes coming.

I'm excited, I think. For the opportunity to do my best, to do what I do best. To receive acclaim for something that I have done rather than what my parents have done. Maybe eventually, to spend more time with Ben or someone like him. To read more for pleasure rather than to study - to someday understand a little more about my own culture, my own district.

There are big things ahead of me. I can't wait.

But for now, I have to finish this chapter on immunosuppression.

x

 _See, I'm back to writing with something resembling regularity! 'Every couple of days' might be a solid expectation to have - I'm presenting a paper at conference this Friday._

 _It... might be a little transparent which characters I find more interesting at others, but... I deny everything._


	13. Lucas, District 6

Light Giving

Lucas Inoue, District 6

x

I too possess a tongue-

just ask me what I want to say.

Though there is none present without you,

then oh God, what is this noise about?

I expected faith from those

who do not even know what faith is.

'Innocent Heart', Mirza Ghalib

x

Remembering my mama used to make me feel sad, since she's not here anymore and I know I'll never see her again. But my dad says that's normal. It would be weird if I wasn't sad.

Sometimes I have a hard time putting words to my thoughts, but 'sad' has become a familiar one. It seems like something people expect of me, sort of - I barely even have to explain before they're saying it on their own. It's not always too bad having words put in your mouth, especially when it's as difficult to form and structure them as it can sometimes be for me.

I'm not especially sad today though, even though the reaping is going on. My dad is an engineer with the company that provides repairs to the trains that run all through the districts - it used to be that he wasn't always home all the time, traveling all over to fix the trains and the tracks or whatever else they needed of him. But mama died about four years ago, in the middle of the winter, when she was set to have a baby.

Now he doesn't leave much, but I still appreciate all the time I have with him that I'm not at school and he's not working long hours.

He fixed me a really nice breakfast this morning, steamy hot soup with vegetables and green onions in it. Not too spicy - he always asks the woman at the market who makes the soup not to make it too spicy, since I don't like spicy food. It makes my mouth feel like it's crawling. So the soup was good, and sitting with him was good - he told me about all the new people he worked with this week

I love to watch people - it's something that has always fascinated me. I can't talk to people very well, unless they know me as well as my dad does and my mom did. Ever since I was a kid, I've just not been quite so good as some of the other kids are at talking - which would be normal, I guess, if I didn't pay attention or didn't know things. But I do. I just have trouble putting words to them.

That's why it's so interesting to watch people, talking and laughing and expressing all the things they think - one of these days, maybe, with enough watching I'll have the tools to do that exactly the way that they do. It's like watching acrobats at a traveling circus - like, amazing, impressive, maybe just within reach of your physical ability, someday… something to hope to be?

I know I'm lucky to have had such good parents. Lots of kids like me, who didn't say their first words until they were seven or eight, got sent to hospitals. Since the big rebellion, the Capitol has offered services for people and children especially from the district with mental problems. It's supposed to be a better life, and frees your parents up to work without worrying that you're getting fed. You can be trained to work in factories or easy serving jobs when you get older.

I'm lucky that my parents wanted to keep me. I don't ever want to leave District 6. It's where my mother lived. I can still a little bit feel her here.

"Good soup?" my dad asks me from across our little table?

I nod and smile. He knows how to talk to me in a way that's easy for me to follow and reply - 'yes' or 'no' is usually good, because even if I trip on the word I can shake my head or use gesture.

"Is that what you're going to wear to the reaping?" he adds.

I nod again.

I'm wearing a pair of soft light brown pants and a yellow button-down shirt that is big enough not to feel tight or itchy. My dad smiles at me.

"Then, when you finish eating, please tell me when you're ready to go."

He pulls a spiral notebook from his back pocket - my dad has always been a little bit spacey, not quite in the same way as I am, but that's the level where we understand each other. Being a little odd.

Gratefully, I finish my soup, watching him jot something down in his little book, totally unaware of my eyes on him. My dad is always working on twenty different problems, and he's really good at his job - that's how come my parents were able to afford to keep me around, I've started to realize.

He has a lot of respect from his job, from the district. So even something that can be shameful in District 6, like having a son who isn't quite right and doesn't talk much, isn't too hard a hit. He has money, so he can take care of me. And even though he's odd, people like him. People like me better because I'm attached to him somehow.

Finishing my soup, I tap the table to get his attention. He looks up. "What is it?"

"I'm… ready," I say. "To go."

"Good," he says, picking up my dishes and carefully transferring them to the sink. "C'mon, let's head out."

I push in my chair carefully, wincing just a little at the scraping noise, and follow my dad to the door. He hands me a pair of tan-colored glasses that sometimes make it easier for me to deal with being around a lot of people, and gestures at the door.

As I slide them on, acutely feeling the light pressure of the glasses on the bridge of my nose, I tentatively pull the door open. Immediately, I feel a little overloaded by the bright sunlight and the sounds of hundreds of people milling in the streets, wearing bright-colored clothes and talking loudly, some happy, some sad. My brain tries to pick out and listen to every voice, but there are so many that it's impossible and I start to get overwhelmed.

My dad puts a comforting arm on my shoulder and gives me a squeeze - I take a second to focus on the pressure and the noise dulls to a hum. The glasses help the bright colors not seem too vivid and distracting, and even though I want to look at everything, I know I can keep myself calm and focused. Sort of focused. Focused enough.

As my dad starts walking, I follow him, and the way the movement feels helps to distract me even more from the surrounding reaping day chaos. We live near the square, in the richer part of town thanks to my dad's job and all my mama's savings. The streets are clean here, though I think that they sort of are in all of District 6. That's how people think of us - clean and quiet.

Though even in this part of town, there are vendors selling traditional food everywhere for what is considered a holiday, bright red and white buildings like the stripes on a candy cane, some more traditional, some more Capital-style. Some parts of District 6 are poorer, don't have such nice paint or building shapes, but here, my dad always tells me, we are very lucky.

Following my dad, I have to stop a lot as he notices interesting things or waves to people who work with him, since most of his company lives in the nice part of town like us, but I like that okay since it gives me some time to look around and watch people. Dark-haired schoolgirls who travel in packs, all dressed similarly, pass us frequently without a second glance. A few rebellious younger people with bleached or dyed hair also pass, in smaller groups or alone - everyone has to pass through here on the way to the reaping.

Some people have happy expressions, but some definitely don't - the alone ones are usually the unhappy ones. That's something that makes me hold my dad's arm a little tighter. Being alone is always something that has worried me, especially since losing my mama. My parents were just about the only people I had all the time, no matter what, and if you can lose one of the most important people in your life, well… what _can't_ happen?

Usually when I go on walks with my dad, we go really slow and he asks me to use words to explain the things and people that we see. As an exercise to help me talk more and better. It's hard, but I think it helps… I guess practice is the only thing that has ever made it easier to match up my thoughts and inside words with the right mouth sounds to make other people understand me.

Today, I think - just like last reaping day - he knows that the event and all the people is stressful, probably too stressful for practice to be very helpful. And I think it makes him a little sad, too - scared, I guess.

It was hard for my dad when mama died. I know he loved her more than almost anything in the world, except maybe me and his job. He just hasn't ever moved on, and I don't think he ever will. He would probably be even sadder without me, if I had to leave in the reaping.

We make it to the square just about on time, even with all the stops to talk with my dad's work friends and me occasionally getting distracted.

My dad brings me all the way to the peacekeeper checkpoint, which I don't think is completely normal, because all of the other people who are about my age at the checkpoint are alone. But my dad has to show the peacekeeper, a tall and big-shouldered man who looks like he is probably from District 6, with his thick and straight hair, near-black eyes, and darker skin. We only have a couple of peacekeepers that are from the Capitol or District 2 - people don't trust them so much, so whoever is in charge of the system has made sure that we get mostly people who look like us and understand how our culture works.

It's good - my dad says I don't have to be scared of them, but he has told me stories about how they used to be very bad sometimes and hurt people, especially people who were different or simple or poor. I know that he was born poor, and has always been a little weird, not quite like I am but sort of the same thing. So he is always very careful to look after me around peacekeepers, even the real District 6 ones. Even though he says they're safe now.

His jaw has a funny shape on account of being broken once, which still hurts him sometimes. I think that might be why he has so much trouble forgiving them for how they used to be. Even though they treat him with so much respect now - it's hard to forget pain.

He shows the peacekeeper a document that the man takes a few seconds to read before nodding.

"Okay, Lucas," my dad says. "They're not going to take your blood. Remember last year? You just need to put your finger on the ink pad and make a print for them to scan later. Okay?"

I nod.

"This man is named Hiroshi. Is it okay if Hiroshi takes your hand?"

I nod again and extend my arm towards the peacekeeper. He isn't rough at all, just presses my pointer finger onto a purple ink pad and then against a piece of paper from a little booklet on his belt. The people behind us at the checkpoint seem very restless as this happens - it takes longer than the finger prick.

"What was that?" a boy from in line behind us demands as we begin to walk forward into the area cordoned off for the reaping.

"Disability exemption - file one yourself if you care so much," Hiroshi, the peacekeeper, tells the boy as my dad hurries me away.

Not everyone gets to keep their dad with them, either, but a lot of people know who mine is and there isn't any trouble as we sit down.

Once the stress of the walk over has faded, the reaping is always very interesting, if super overstimulating. I take off my glasses, the better to absorb all of the sights and sounds and colors on stage, since I don't have to worry about walking anywhere and I can just sit with my dad, with his arm comfortingly around my shoulder.

The mayor of District 6 is an older woman, very coiffed and neat and well-dressed. She is sitting onstage next to our only victor, An, a tiny woman with stringy muscles and very dark skin, whose large eyes - my mom used to call them 'moon eyes' - are fringed with thin lashes, giving her a face like a child, very sweet and innocent even though her expression is always hard and cold.

Mayor Tsuchiya is always the first to speak at the reaping, though her speech is always very short. She has a way of using words that is very efficient. My dad calls it 'quintessentially District 6', which is a way of saying that she represents what people everywhere think that we are like.

Our escort, a man with silvery skin pictures and sharp points that end in silver in his dark hair, is running on time - but most events where Mayor Tsuchiya speaks start early, so she looks unhappy about the whole thing.

My dad points our escort out for me as he arrives, whispering "look, there's Mardian!"

It's an excellent use of time, watching the light glisten off his very dark skin, the color of wrought steel, interspersed with his silver pictures of birds and lines, which travel all the way up to his hairline. Mayor Tsuchiya speaks, but I'm not really watching her - instead, I pay attention to the way Mardian and An occasionally look at each other, very awkward and not happy with the way things are arranged. I think they might say a few words, but it's mostly Mardian talking and An raising her thin eyebrow.

We are pretty close to the stage, in the thirteen-year-olds section, so I can see a lot of what is going on. Much more interesting than Mayor Tsuchiya discussing her thoughts on the upcoming presidential election and what the reaping will mean for that. District 6's role in Panem as a whole has always been something of a puzzle for me - I have trouble thinking on that sort of a scale. But she makes it sound important.

An grimaces every time Mayor Tsuchiya says 'reaping'. This isn't a happy time for her. I try to remember her age, but I don't remember seeing her Games - she must be more old than she looks.

Eventually, Mayor Tsuchiya finishes and Mardian takes the stage. He has a deep and throaty voice. It's easier to imagine him singing than talking. First, he tells us, he's going to draw the girl tribute's name.

My dad's arm tightening around my shoulders - even though I'm a boy, there's nothing to worry about - brings me fully into the moment.

"-and our female tribute will be… Yuna Watanabe!" Mardian says, his fascinating voice carrying all through the square.

Watanabe is a name I have heard before - I think it might be on a building somewhere. And the rustle of voices and the image projected on the screen behind Mardian show a tall and pretty girl from the eighteens' section, looking like she's just been punched - not sad, but just… in shock.

My dad is holding me too tight. I squirm in his grip until he eases off. I know this is hard for him to watch - no one is wailing for this girl, but some seem surprised.

She is dressed like someone who has money. That's not always how it is - usually you expect to see someone from the poor part of the district, with a ton of tesserae. But when you're eighteen, like she is, your odds are also pretty bad even if you don't have to enter extra times.

Mardian welcomes her to the stage - her forehead is twisted into something terrible, almost like anguish, but on seeing her own image in one of the many monitors in the crowd she swallows once and it all goes blank. No more fear, no more sadness - just nothing.

That's almost harder to watch. Now it's me hugging my dad. Where are her parents? Why is no one crying out for her?

"Volunteers?" Mardian asks, though it's not likely. We don't usually have volunteers. This one is no exception.

"If that's the case," he says, "congratulations, Yuna - we'll move on now to the young men."

He dips his black and silver hand into the giant fishbowl and pulls out a name.

I think I miss it when he reads the name aloud, probably because the crowd is suddenly so loud and my dad is standing up, dragging me with him, holding me way too tight to his chest - I try to wriggle away again, but this time he is _not_ letting go. I keep trying - I want to hear the name.

"No!" he's saying. But not to me, I don't think. Panicked, but angry-panicked, not scared.

Mardian looks confused at the crowd's reaction - I think most of the loud voices are coming from very far back, where all of the adults are. I maybe even recognize some of the voices. Friends of my dad's. A few words, here and there - I snatch my glasses and stick them on my face to help cancel out some of the distractions so I can hear better.

"-he's not right-"

"-not fair-"

"-can they do that?"

"-didn't know he was old enough-"

"Lucas Inoue?" Mardian reads again, tapping on the microphone taped under his collar to try to get attention.

He doesn't have much hope - the whispers are spreading through the crowd.

"-dumb little boy-"

"-can they really-"

"-isn't in school-"

"-a mute-"

My dad still hasn't relaxed his vice grip on me, even as two peacekeepers approach - Hiroshi from before and a huge woman with very dark skin and a shaved head, probably from the Capitol or District 2.

I want to warn them that this will only make my dad more scared, that he doesn't like peacekeepers, especially Capitol ones - but all I can get out it "no! don't!" which sounds a lot like I'm saying what everyone else is.

"He… he's scared!" I say, a little louder, trying to get out of my dad's grip, my glasses askew, nearly wiggling all the way out of my nice soft shirt as Hiroshi the peacekeeper puts a hand on my dad's shoulder and my dad finally lets go of me to _swing at him_ , hand in a messy fist.

The foreign peacekeeper catches the blow easily. My dad is a small man, not a strong man. She has at least a foot and a half of height on him. He tries to hit her too.

Hiroshi takes my hand and straightens my shirt.

"You need to come with me," he says, looking very sad.

I can't stop looking at my dad, who is such a good and kind man, now being restrained by the foreign peacekeeper as he tries in vain to break away and get to me. There's so much movement, so much noise I can't think straight.

"Don't hurt him," I finally say, though I'm not sure it's the right thing to say, not sure it will help - I just want to help him.

"That's Valerie," Hiroshi tells me, walking me up to the stairs. "She's been doing this for ten years. She won't hurt your father."

"He's… scared, just," I say.

"We know. I'm sorry."

It's weird, holding the hand of his thick white armor. It feels gritty and too-smooth all at once. I want to wash my hand or at least brush it off but he won't let go.

"I'm so sorry," he keeps saying as he leads me up to the stage.

My glasses are still askew when I first see myself on the monitor - much shorter than Yuna, I'm barely much more than four and a half feet tall. I look younger than my age. My shirt is messy and pulled up a little.

She is gaping at me, so much confusion and horror and pity in one expression. So is Mardian, but that's just pity and shock. Even Mayor Tsuchiya is ruffled. I look maybe eight years old, my dad has told me before.

I search for him in the crowd - he's on the ground now, but Hiroshi the peacekeeper is with him now and he is the one restraining him, not Valerie. She has her hand on her gun, but it isn't out. I think he will be okay. I just wish he would stop struggling - I know he won't, though.

I look, I realize, seeing myself in the monitor, almost as blank as Yuna did when she was chosen. Just shocked. Not enough time to think of a way to make my face respond. I'm going to die. I'm leaving my father.

"Welcome… Lucas," Mardian says haltingly.

"Hi," I whisper, hearing and seeing the crowd roaring around me, everyone realizing by now that there myst be some mistake, I'm funny-shaped and wrong and my dad is on the ground being restrained… something is wrong, they know it.

"…congratulations…"


	14. Fidan, District 7

Young Sapling

Fidan Said

x

Under a mass of snow

a violet is patiently waiting.

Each opening rose partakes of

the patience of ages.

There are things we must share,

and how the word takes shape within me.

'Intimations of Anxiety', Laila al Saih (translated by May Jayyusi and Naomi Shihab Nye)

x

"Come onnnnn, Fidan, we're going to be late!" my little sister, Naya, insists, yanking on my arm.

"I'm not done with breakfast!" I whine exaggeratedly, grasping at my piece of toasted, thick-crusted raisin bread. "This is abuse!"

She lets go, huffing with exasperation. Naya is barely pushing four and a half feet tall, only twelve, her tiny body thrumming with nervous excitement at the prospect of her first reaping. I know she's terrified, but there's also a sense of the commonplace. This is a milestone, after all. She's been insisting that she is a 'big girl' for a while now.

I wolf down the remainder of my bread - sooooo good, rich and sweet with molasses, some maple, tree nuts, dried fruits… "Fidan!" Naya shrieks again. "Khamsa is already in the square, we're gonna be late!"

"Khamsa works in the square, Naya," I sigh, adjusting my hair in the reflection of the oven door. "He's supposed to be there."

Our older brother works with both of our parents running a thriving apothecary business in the square - though in reality, they mostly end up selling seasonings, the business has been family run since before modern medicine came along to make poultices less popular. He's eighteen this year - it'll be the last (and only) reaping during which all three of us are eligible.

And thank god. It's been turning our parents grey - even though Khamsa and I can both handle ourselves perfectly well, and I'd have no intention of ever letting little Naya within a mile of the Capitol. I understand the anxiety, though - losing a source of income would be every bit as devastating when it comes to our finances as losing a child would be emotionally.

Naya is the one I'd actually be worried about looking after, though, and up until I lose eligibility, I can promise that she's not setting foot in an arena. I love her so much. She's type-A as anything - you can tell she's the only one of us who really has a future doing anything more than what our parents and grandparents and great grandparents have been doing since the first rebellion, the one that created Panem-that-was long before things got better. She's brilliant, whip-smart, an obnoxious know-it-all, and perhaps most obviously at the moment, can't _stand_ to be late.

"Fidannnnnn!"

"Fine!"

I don't like being cooped up, by walls or deadlines or expectations or… not-lateness. While Khamsa has bitten the bullet to be the responsible businessman and carry on our parents' legacy, I dropped out of school a few months ago to do full-time assaying work in the woods. That means cataloguing all of the plant life in, say, a square acre - tagging, quantifying, labelling - and submitting the reports to whichever logging company is paying me.

At least, that's the 'working' side of it - from a more day-to-day perspective, I get to swing through trees and forage for interesting roots and blossoms and vegetables without anyone supervising me beyond the standard protocol of hiring two separate assayers to check the same acreage. As long as we don't communicate, and our numbers and names look similar, they don't need to spare the manpower to supervise the reedy young things - like me! - while we do what we do best. Never mind that it's with the knowledge that the trees we count and qualify are destined to be ground up for timber. That's a little too sad to think about.

It's not a bad deal, though. I pay my parents a good cut of my cheque to keep living at home. The deal was, I get a place to stay while I'm in school or working for them - anything else and I've got to pay my own way through.

Naya is seconds away from spontaneously combusting due to stress as I finally follow her out the front door, locking it behind me. She looks adorable in a threadbare yellow dress, which brings out the undertones of gold and olive behind her velvety brown skin.

We don't live far from the square - a necessity given our place of business, though it makes the tiny two-bedroom house that the five of us share dreadfully expensive. Things aren't so bad with money, though there have been difficult times, especially in the few years right after the Mockingly Rebellion. Food was short. It's never exactly been long, but I've had a lot of hungry weeks.

It's been better, especially recently with both Khamsa and me bringing in money. He's tall and charismatic, a natural at the kind of work that my parents do, haggling streetside. Sharp as a tack, like Naya, but differently - she's got a memory like a steel trap, but he's got the social skills in the family, and a work ethic and sense of duty like no one else I've ever met.

What did that leave me with? A kind of lean, stringy strength, and a deep and abiding love for nature. But not necessarily all that bright, in any conventional meaning of the word.

I've gotten used to it. Not everybody can be the smart one. As long as I've got my trees, I'm happy.

Naya leads me through the winding cobblestone side-streets towards the center of the square, impossibly fast - a glance at the distant clock in the square tells me that we're going to make it just fine, even taking into account the massive crowds that will be forming and the queues that we'll have to wait through on our way to the cordoned-off areas by age.

I'll be heading to the fifteens, Naya to the twelves. Though she's running ahead of me now, desperate to be punctual, I can already see her sliding back, closer to me, eyes darting in my direction to make sure I'm still with her. Of course she's nervous. I remember my first reaping - and while I'm the most happy-go-lucky person you've ever met, which hasn't changed since girlhood, I still just about had a stress aneurism.

As I'm contemplating that, Naya doubles back and takes my hand.

"Hey, Fidan, what's gonna happen?" she asks, trying very hard to sound conversational. "Like, I know some of it, but… what exactly am I gonna have to do? Just one more time?"

I smile, hopefully reassuringly. "They'll take a little blood and write both of our names down as 'in attendance' - then you'll head for the twelves, which is closest to the stage, and I'll head for the fifteens, which is right in the middle. Khamsa is way in the back, which means we probably won't see him until after. But if you catch a glimpse, make sure you smile big and wave."

"Will he get picked, do you think?" she asks, her little brow furrowing deeply.

"Don't frown, you'll get wrinkles," I chide her. "No, he won't."

"Statistically, though…"

"Come on, Naya, there are pushing a hundred thousand people in the district. Most aren't as well-off as we are. His odds are fine - this is more of a celebration than a scary day. It's his last year!"

She sighs, all drama. "But he took out tesserae."

"So did I!" I tell her. "So did you! It's a good thing. That's why we have all that bread we eat."

"But our odds…"

"…aren't bad at all, Naya. It beats starving, right? What are the odds on starving if we don't have food, hm?"

She makes her standard impatient huff. "I don't feel like you're taking this very seriously, Fidan."

I shrug - she's right, I never really have. The Hunger Games has always seemed very far away. Only the starting events - the chariots, interviews, pre-games coverage - and the finale are mandatory viewing in the districts. It sort of… distances us from the whole thing, if that makes sense. What's there to take seriously? I take the risk of getting struck by lightning a billion times more seriously than I do getting reaped. I climb around in trees. That one's potentially real. Heck, breaking my neck or something is more of a present danger every single day of my life, and I take it willingly.

Why not this, too?

Of course, that wouldn't make sense for Naya, whose future is full of limitless possibilities. But all I have is my family, a few friends I'm growing apart from since I left school and they opted to stay enrolled, and my job.

Like, I've got plenty to live for, but nothing to be _afraid_ for. I'm not even dating anyone, though there's a really cute guy on the lumber squad for one of the companies I've been assaying for, and I've kind of got my eye on him. Though we haven't, like, exchanged words or anything. My eye is the only thing I've got on him.

We approach the square with a minute or two to spare, and Naya takes my hand and drags me physically to one of the sign-in stations.

Though we're immediately caught in a queue, Naya continues to rock with nervous energy as we wait. I almost laugh - she's a real sight, in one of her nicest dresses, wriggling like a molting cabbage looper beneath a leaf of lettuce.

I'm about to point out the similarity to her, but she keeps nervously glancing forward a few people in line and and trying to see what they're doing. Wincing dramatically at each finger prick.

"How bad does it hurt?" she asks, her huge brown eyes round and scared.

"Less than a bee sting, and it's over in half a second," I tell her, smiling as brightly as I can manage.

"I've never had a bee sting," she says, and I can hear panic rising in her voice.

"Well, I've had a dozen and I'm still standing," I reply, which is the truth.

Since the Mockingly Rebellion, the Capitol has been much more willing to hear concerns about muttation nests in the outer districts - both District 7 and District 11 have been confirmed as tracker jacker free, and that's mostly because we have the most consistent data. Assayers like me are trained to spot the nests and report back immediately for a cash reward and the day off, which is powerful incentive to find and log them. District 11 is almost entirely either residential or agriculture, so it's been cleared of most natural vegetation, which makes taking account of the nests and removing them a lot easier.

I know from school that they can still be problematic on occasion in District 9, but that's mostly because of expansion into previously uncultivated and unused forest land to meet rising demand for wheat products and increasing capacity to farm them with better tech, straight out of the Capitol. So even there, it's a 'problem' but not like… an increasing one.

I've never found a nest, but with the promise of the cash bonus and the day off, I figure it's a matter of time before I will one into existence. More money, more food, more free time to eat it with! And maybe gifts for Khamsa and Naya.

So while I hold out that hope, all of my besting experiences have been with very normal bees. I understand if we get stung by a tracker jacker, the Capitol will front for all of our medical care and cover two weeks time off. Not a bad deal.

"What if I get picked?" Naya demands abruptly. "One more time? What do I do?"

"You won't get picked."

"But if I do, I don't want to get hurt, I don't want the peacekeepers to think I'm stupid-"

"Naya, that's a bad word, don't say that," I tell her. "You'll have twenty seconds at most before I volunteer, alright? So just look cute for the cameras."

"Fidan!" she half-shrieks. "Don't even joke!"

"I'm being 100% serious, Naya. You have nothing to worry about. Okay? Pay attention to the line, we're almost there. Tell the peacekeeper your name and give her your hand."

She looks like she wants to argue more but the force of not making the peacekeepers mad at her or looking slow in line gets her back in position. We're almost to the checkpoint, where a short but solidly-built woman with close-cropped brown hair and half an ear missing is pricking the finger of a lanky older girl just ahead of us.

"You're up," I whisper to Naya. "Showtime, girl."

She marches up to the checkpoint with as much confidence as she can muster and announces "my name is Naya Tokhly!" while extending a delicate hand.

The woman pricks her finger deftly, checks the name that a little handheld machine shows her, and ushers Naya in where she dawdles as I do the same.

"C'mon," I say, "head up to the front. You can't miss the twelve-year-olds' area."

She nods, turning towards the stage and taking a few paces - then dashing back to leap up and hug me, clinging like a fungus to a tree trunk. A simile I imagine she wouldn't especially enjoy.

"You're killing me here," I tell her.

With a soft thud, her shoes hit the pavement as she releases me.

"Thank you," she says. "I love you, Fidan."

"I love you too! Run, weren't you the one who didn't want to be late?"

As she sprints off, I scan the fifteen-year-olds for anyone I recognize - there are a couple of guys sitting together, one of whom I think might be part of the clearance crew that follows my acreage assays. I don't think they would know me.

In the process of mulling over whether or not I should just join them and give it a go, an old friend from school catches my eye, waving - Karira, who I was never especially close to,but who is sitting alone.

She has lovely thick brows that I always envied just a little, like the wings of a raven. Dresses nicely, nicer than me. We sometimes were partnered in class. She's pretty far in - I have to scootch around some of the milling groups of people to get to her. But she looks almost as grateful as I feel to be with someone.

I've never been such a big fan of sitting around alone - introspection doesn't appeal to me as a rule. Either I'm working or I'm talking.

"Hey!" I say as I step delicately around a taller guy's toes to join her. "Karira!"

"Fidan!" She says. "It's been _forever_."

"I know, like a year since last time. Anything interesting happened onstage yet?"

She glances up, like she's checking. Which probably means that nothing notable has gone down. Mayor Jibril, a tall and greying man with a neatly trimmed beard, impeccably well-dressed, is already standing sternly at the podium. Our escort, a pretty woman named Regan, is applying some kind of powder to her face as our victor, Saxaul, pointedly ignores her, instead watching the crowd nervously.

He's mid-twenties now, cute in a scruffy and tired kind of way, kind-eyed. He got lucky in his year - on the older end of the spectrum at eighteen, smart and strong and competent. Wouldn't have lasted very long if the backstabbing in the Careers hadn't been so bad that they mostly killed each other off.

Poor guy, tried to carry his district partner, who was only a little older than me, through the whole Games as his ally. She was mostly useless, smart enough to know a good ally when she had one. Tried to kill him in his sleep in the final six.

That can't be easy to let go of. And if I remember it, lord knows he does too.

"Saxaul looks jittery," Karira whispers, looking happy to have someone to whisper her thoughts to.

"He always does," I say, shrugging.

"Regan almost looks like she cares about what's going on."

"She'll look plenty like she cares once it's time to talk. They have to, I'm pretty sure. Job performance issues could get her canned, I hear."

"No, really?" Karira says conspiratorially. "I guess you're right - it sends the wrong message if we think they don't care."

"She _does_ represent them. President Lancaster always looks emotional and like, involved when she makes appearances."

Karira laughs. "That's true! You were always good at putting things like that together - remember when you caught Mrs. Lightwood and the principal using the same words to explain why they missed coming to the choir concert?"

"That was wild… man, hope that didn't mess up their lives too bad."

"We miss you, you know," she tells me. "I know you were never super close with me, but it's less fun at school without you."

"Aw, that's…" I start, but don't quite get to finish the sentence as Mayor Jibril taps the microphone and begins his speech.

It'd be the height of disrespect to talk during it, but Karira and I exchange a lot of knowing eyebrow-raises and meaningful looks. It's weird, how quickly I can slip back into the clothes of the person I was before I left school. How much I left behind there - easy to forget all the moments of happiness, all the people who I maybe actually sort of liked. More importantly, who liked me. I wasn't unpopular. Maybe I do miss that a little.

"…in the coming reaping, may we present our best, may we show the strength of our district, may we represent ourselves as we truly are. Strong - thriving. Insha'Allah, the next victor will be from District Seven."

Mayor Jibril finishes his speech to near-universal applause. Not all of the district is religious - he just happens to be. In fact, we're just as much a den of sin as pretty much any other district. But people like how clean-cut and old-fashioned-values Mayor Jibril paints himself. He's like a trustworthy-if-kind-of-stodgy grandfather in a hot dad's body.

"Feeling lucky?" I whisper to Karira, who laughs.

"If they want to send the best, they're not gonna send me," she whispers back, patting her arms - a little plump, but in a very becoming way. Devoid of muscle, though. She's lived a pretty easy life, at least in terms of physical exertion.

"Good morning!" Regan says, the bright acidity of her bubbly-high voice burning straight through the crowd, silencing us again. "Welcome, District Seven!"

No one replies, of course - she wasn't expecting us to.

"Why don't we get started - the young man who will be honored today iiiiiiis…"

She strides over to the first massive glass bowl of names and slips a slender, glitter-manicured hand in, plucking out a single name.

"Oliver Salcedo!" she announces.

I glance at Karira - she's giving me the same blank but expectant look. Neither of us know him.

The man who stands up, to immediate attention by several cameras projecting his face on the massive screen behind Regan, is tall and olive-skinned, on the lighter range of the district's complexions, with faint stubble barely obfuscating a strong but refined jawline. He has dramatic eyebrows over clever dark eyes and a mess of wavy black hair that settles almost to his ears.

"He's cute," Karira says, sounding almost startled.

"He's falling," I observe, as the young man immediately trips, clumsily half-attempting to break his own fall with an outstretched hand. Not succeeding.

When the people around him help him to his feet, there is a thin trickle of blood running from an injury above his eyebrow.

"Not exactly what Mayor Jibril was going for with the whole 'strong and competent district representative' thing," I say, and Karira giggles.

"I don't care, I'll watch him," she whispers.

"Hope that doesn't mess up his chances. He still looks wobbly," I say, scrutinizing the way Oliver Saucedo is walking up to the stage, from pretty far back - probably seventeen. "Swaying a little."

"Oh no," Karira says, sympathy coloring her voice. "I hope he's not concussed."

I shoot for sympathy, but miss as I abruptly realize that this poor man's selection this morning means that Khamsa is safe now. Almost feel guilty at that not being my first thought - I forgot my worry for my brother in my excitement over re-finding a friend.

Regan shakes Oliver's hand when he reaches the stage - he's very tall and muscular, dwarfs her physically, but continues to look like he isn't quite sure how to find his balance.

"Congratulations, Oliver Salcedo!" she announces, but he gives her a look as though she's possibly the stupidest person on the planet.

"Well, fuck. Thanks," he says, almost slurring, eliciting a shocked glance from Mayor Jibril.

Regan looks confused for a second, but presses on - "and now, for the ladies…"

She navigates on her spindly heels over to the second enormous bowl of names and pulls one out - this time, I can feel the tension in my stomach. Not Naya.

"Fidan Said!"

All of the blood rushes to my head at once and the only thought I can speak out around it, stifled by the horrified look already materializing on Karira's face, is 'well, that's not Naya'.

I stand almost mechanically and raise my hand, feeling like I'm in a lesson all over again, about to respond "present" to Mrs. Lightwood.

"Hi," I say, without really thinking about it.

The uneasy laughter from the few people who hear me almost drowns out the tiny voice shouting 'no!' from the front of the crowd. My heart sinks. Naya.

I don't know how I make it to the stage without tripping and breaking my face like Oliver, but somehow I do and find myself next to him. He smells like he's been doused in gin and just a little hair product, which explains… a lot.

"Congratulations, Fidan Said!" Regan says, her grin as fake as her white teeth.

I smile too, scanning the crowd for Naya, trying to make it real for her. I… somehow I never saw it coming.

But I guess I'll deal with it later, like I've dealt with everything. A problem for future-Fidan. I find my little sister's eyes and I smile, as real as I can.

"Thank you," I say. "I'll make the district proud."

I'm mentally preparing to die like a dog in a ditch, but Naya doesn't need to know that. And maybe… maybe I won't. But the odds are unignorably bad. I got struck by lightening.

I can almost see the tears in Naya's eyes, know that Khamsa is experiencing the same unbearable agony that I had so hoped to avoid with my own little sister… and that thought is all that's keeping the tears from spilling out of my eyes, too.


	15. Oliver, District 7

Planter of Olive Trees

Oliver Salcedo, District 7

x

Outside a taxi passes

with its load of ghosts.

The river that runs by

is always

running back.

Will tomorrow be another day?

'Last Dawn', Octavio Paz

x

"-ANOTHER ROUND!"

"Slow down, Ollie, how many has this been?" Val implores, putting her fragile hand on my arm - I barely feel it through the thick fabric of my flannel work shirt, or maybe the juniper-alcohol haze has something to do with it.

I haven't gone foggy or anything, just feeling good, just numb enough that my back doesn't hurt from hauling wood all damn day. Just energized enough that I can raise my voice beyond the demeaning halfway-speaking tone I use to address my bosses.

"This'll be eight, my guy," the bartender tells me, pouring out another glass of the thin off-clear liquid that smells like turpentine. "Unless you want your girl carrying you out of here, you might want to take it easy."

"She's my _sister_ ," I say, gesturing a bit aggressively at Val. "And I'll drink anyone in this bar under the table."

"Sure you will," the bartender says ruefully, shaking her head with… maybe disdain, it's too dark to tell. The windows in the bar are boarded closed to keep the atmosphere going in daylight hours and the peacekeepers out come nighttime. I abruptly realize that there are not enough people remaining in the establishment for my boast to have carried much weight.

"Ollie, the reaping," Val insists, and those words, at least, snap me out of my good mood.

"Val, c'mon," I say. "Can't we not talk about shitty things? For once?"

My sister couldn't look more unlike me if she tried - she's barely brushing five feet tall while I'm a respectable six feet, not bad for a laborer from a poor family. Work has given me a stringy but prominent musculature - Val has always been sickly, born about a year after me, but always so much younger-seeming. So much smarter, too. Blonde and hazel-eyed, somehow, despite having the same dark complexion as most of us. She sticks out like a birch tree in a stand of laurel oaks, always too slender and too light and too ethereal.

"It's in half an hour, almost everyone is gone," she says.

"I'm not showing up sober," I tell her.

"At this rate, you have a cedar's chance in a lumber mill of making it to the square sober," the bartender says helpfully. I look up to give her a glare, but she just chuckles. "Listen to your sister, kid."

"I'm not a kid," I argue, but Val has a solid grip on my arm and starts to drag me out of my seat, not quite willingly.

"Don't worry," Val tells the bartender. "He's good for his tab. Just not right now."

"No problem. You two be safe now. Reaping day's good for business here, but… it's a bad business in general. Best of luck."

I stumble after Val as she pulls me into the blinding light of the street, loud noises and colors as people mill around us making it difficult to focus on any one thing. I lock the muscles in my calves in place and let her guide me, like one of the woods girls that they sent through to assay before the loggers.

My team comes in after the trees have already been felled and takes the necessary steps to haul them back - sometimes whole, sometimes in pieces, depending on the size of the tree in question. It feels almost sacrilegious, what we have to do to the trees, after being taught to respect them and learn their names for so long in school - but it makes a living, and my parents are both getting too old to work already at a little over fifty.

The sort of work we do in District 7 is backbreaking. You can't do too much of it before your bones start to crumble or fuse. Good doctors are in short supply, especially if you can't pay through the nose for them.

Val works a job at a pharmacy taking money and making change - which isn't a good enough job for her, but what else is she supposed to do as a delicate little sixteen year old? Too brittle to swing around in the trees like the assayers, too small to join me hauling wood like my older sisters, Amelia and Tamara. Sickly since the day she was born.

But very quiet and determined. I've never been a quiet person, but I have a weird respect for her because she doesn't have to be loud all the time. Most of the girls I spend time with are either loud and dramatic or just… completely wiped out, and she's neither. There's a good kind of strength in my sister that's worth protecting.

"Try not to sway so much," she grumbles, fighting to steady me as we barely clear a jagged curb of the sidewalk.

"I'm fine," I say, pushing away and holding myself upright. "Not on my ass yet."

"Yet," she says pointedly, watching me carefully as I haphazardly follow her.

Luckily, there are enough people milling around in the same direction as we are that I'm unlikely to lose my way even if I lose Val. And it's a journey we both know pretty well, since it's my sixth year of reapings and her fifth. One more year to go for me. Then a year after that while my whole family agonizes over Val's chances. Then free, at least from this particular evil.

Free to go back to work until my back breaks under a tree and my face hangs off my skull with exhaustion. Because that's the kind of life we're free to live.

With any luck I'll die of some kind of liver disease by fifty or so. My dad is pushing sixty and I never want to be like that - just devoid of any remote spark of enjoyment, the closest thing to pleasure he's got being watching Capitol programs.

He tracks the Hunger Games every year - I'm not sure why it doesn't make him miserable, or maybe it does and he just doesn't let on about it. It gives him a story to follow, he says. I'm not sure his eyesight is good enough to read anymore.

I round a corner and find Val waiting for me with an exasperated smile.

"You're a mess, Ollie," she says chidingly.

"You're… definitely right," I say, and I think it comes out pretty coherent but I could be wrong on that.

She laughs and grips my arm. "Just let me steer, okay?"

"Fine…"

We're starting to get dirty looks from both peacekeepers and passersby - or I guess it would be more fair to say that I'm getting dirty looks, because Val looks like some kind of angel descended from heaven for whatever reason to protect a drunken asshole. Alcohol usage is pretty strongly looked down on by about half the district - some religious, some just culturally opposed. Like, rich people who won't even drink wine. Either because it's against what the prophet says or because it's tacky. The other half of the population imbibes heavily enough to make manual labor tolerable, which is how the bars stay in business. Mostly under the table and low-key - no one who can afford not to wants to live near one.

It's pretty fucked up, how a core tenet of a religion can turn into a tool to make rich people feel better about themselves for looking down on poor people. I'm sure it used to be all noble, but it sure as fuck doesn't feel noble when you're on the receiving end of all the judgement and smug self-satisfaction.

I've been sort of zoning out as I stumble after Val, but I'm jolted back into reality as she tells the peacekeeper at one of the checkpoints "I'm Valerie Salcedo" and briefly relaxes her grip on me to offer up her hand for the blood tests.

"Oliver Salcedo," I announce, extending my hand as well - the peacekeeper, a tall woman wearing a white headscarf that peeks out from beneath her helmet, looks perturbed.

"Not yet," she says, marking off Val's name. "Now you."

"Oliver… Salcedo," I say slower. "I can spell it if you want."

"Honestly, I doubt that," she says, pressing her lips together before gingerly taking my hand in one of her gloved ones and pricking me with the little handheld device they use to test our blood.

"O, L, I…" I begin, but before the woman's surprised eyebrow raise can turn into an expression of anger, Val drags me off.

"Ollie, you can't do that," she says, equal parts urgent and bemused.

"What's she gonna do, shoot me?"

"More like backhand you if you didn't get out of her face."

"I can take it," I insist.

"You need to stop with this death wish thing, Ollie, you're scaring me."

I shrug away from her grip. "I'm good to go, really. Get to the sixteens' section, I can find some of the guys to wait with."

"Okay…" she hesitates, like she's not sure she trusts me enough to let me leave.

"C'mon, Val," I say. "Just go. I love you, okay?"

"I love you too, Ollie. Try not to be an idiot, please."

I'm not about to dignify that warning with any response but a derisive laugh - as if Val's the one who should be protecting me.

Back when I was in school, I was pretty known. Even now, I've got plenty of drinking buddies I should be able to find. Not like I'm going to be alone. Sometimes I worry about Val, since she doesn't seem to have much interest in making friends her own age, but honestly if she'd just relax a _little_ she'd be fine.

Despite her best efforts, we did arrive on the late side, so I know I've got to find a spot quick - almost everyone is already settled down and there's some movement on the stage that suggests that Mayor Jibril will be speaking soon.

I spot a head of dyed-blonde hair in the crowd of mostly darker shades and recognize the girl it's attached to instantly. Camata Hayek is from one of the wealthier families in District 7 that still deigned to send their children to a public school. She's dressed gaudily, in a form-fitting gold number that she must have had trouble sneaking past her parents.

The main thing to know about Camata is that, while she openly disdains anyone she considers lesser, which is almost everyone, she likes to be surrounded by good-looking and smart-sounding people, regardless of how otherwise beneath her they are.

That's always been my in with her - not being smart, but having the good fortune to be born with a visible jawline. And I'm meaner than she is, which isn't a small feat.

"Hey, Oliver!" she calls, waving me over as she notices me walking, mostly competently, in her direction.

She's got a healthy group of people with her, two of whom I recognize. Athel Zaghab was someone I counted as a friend back in school, a smart guy, fun to spar with verbally. Wealthy enough to still be a student and nothing else, but appropriately on-the-downlow about it.

I met Erica Ulaby at a bar a while back and liked her enough to spend time with her outside of a comfortably dark room with a lot of alcohol. She's loud and sharp-tongued, a former assayer who managed to get herself promoted to schedule coordination. Secretary work. Clearly beautiful enough for Camata to be willing to sit next to her.

"Damn, Oliver, were you drinking gin or swimming in it?" Erica says, raising her dark eyebrows at me as I join the group.

"I could believe either," Athel says, punching my shoulder by way of greeting. "Where have you been, man? It's been ages."

I laugh and shake his hand away. "Working - y'all wouldn't know what that is."

Camata giggles. "Still, good to see you now."

"Yeah," Erica says. "Spending more on hair products than booze these days, or have you managed to find a balance?"

Admittedly, I do spend a little too much time maintaining the deliberate-bedhead quality of my hair. I shrug. She's not wrong. What spare cash I have laying around, which is to say not much, goes straight to my scalp.

"Not even going to deny it?" Athel presses, nudging me again, which is actually really annoying and if we were anywhere other than the square on reaping day I'd turn around and deck him, but I don't.

"I do it for the ladies, and I own that," I tell him, in lieu of the fist in the face he may be getting later.

A guy friend isn't a guy friend if you can't have a go at killing each other every so often.

Camata giggles again - she could really just hold up a sign that says 'giggle' and shut up a little more often - and shushes us as Mayor Jibril starts to speak. She wouldn't care, but I'm pretty sure her father is close with the mayor. Most of the big business owners are.

He's super religious, or at least talks like he is, and most of the moneymakers in the district aren't so much - that would entail giving to the poor and other unpalatable forms of charity - but they get along, more or less. Probably a politics-y campaign type thing. Not really my shit.

The day is starting to feel hot, and Mayor Jibril's words seem to be swimming through molasses as they make their way to my ears - oh yeah, I'm still pretty wasted, even if I'm not actively falling over. I try to focus on him, something, to avoid falling asleep - which would be embarrassing - but he's not exactly a captivating public speaker, in my expert and refined opinion.

Finally, the escort takes his place at the front of the stage… Regan? Yeah, Regan.

Her voice, at least, sort of wakes me up - like a knife stuck in a grapefruit, squirting out bright acid. Her skin is very pale and flushed pink with the effort of making such a grating sound.

She talks for a bit, then blessedly decides to stop and pick a name from one of the jars.

The first thing I register is not her calling my name - I'm not paying enough attention for that - but Camata sticking a bony elbow into my side, whispering "Oliver, that's you!"

I stand reflexively, the information not quite having passed on to my conscious thought yet, and immediately realize what a terrible choice that was. All the blood rushes to my head, and suddenly the ground rushes to my face - before I can even step away from Camata and the others, I find myself very much fallen face-first onto the ground, my reflex to catch myself too slow to avoid striking my head on something sharp.

Athel and Erica are helping me up immediately, Athel whispering 'dude, bad luck' and Erica giving me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as they guide me in the direction of the aisle.

I think I'm walking straight, but the crowd around me is definitely swaying. I wonder if I would be able to hear Val's voice through the haze of my blood rushing in my head - I wonder if she's calling out to me? Probably not, she's too sensible for that.

Not sure how, but I make it to the stage without falling again. My fingertips feel like they're buzzing, and my head is swimming, which could be perfectly pleasant if I weren't standing in front of the entire district, about to be submitted as tribute.

"Congratulations, Oliver Salcedo!" Regan, the escort, says, which sort of makes it real.

"Well, fuck," I say. "Uh, thanks."

I honestly just want to sit down and have another drink, but that doesn't seem like an option at the moment, so instead I watch as she draws a name from a different bowl and calls 'Fidan Said' onstage.

Fidan is small, but not in the way that Val is - she has an assayer's build, long dark hair pulled back, dark skin, an even deeper brown for all the time she likely spends in the sun, calloused hands. Big hazel eyes, full of uncertainty.

This doesn't seem like a situation that I have to respond to, so I don't - instead, I glance back at our only past victor and mentor, Saxaul, who looks like he's ready to take a nosedive off the repurposed justice building - now a 'community center' that serves much the same function, but under a less rebellion-inducing name.

Regan or the girl must have said something worth cheering, because the crowd is making noises that sound somewhat like cheers - I turn back in time for Regan to grab my hand and lift it up like I've already won. It's a struggle to neither pull away nor hit her.

"District Seven," she announces, "this will be our year!"

Sure it will. I've never been the kind of guy to put much faith in an afterlife, but I hope wherever I go next, there's enough gin to forget this awful fucking day.

x

 _Just got my wisdom teeth out, and I'm baaaaack._


	16. Jean, District 8

God is Gracious

Jean Pollack

x

As new and smooth as a grape,

as pure as a pond in Alaska,

as good as the stem of a green bean-

we are born and that ought to be enough,

we ought to be able to carry on from that

but one must learn about evil

'The Evil Seekers', Anne Sexton

x

District 8 is grey. It's been greying, slowly, since the Mockingjay Rebellion. Colorful textiles flow out like lifeblood, and, increasingly, leave behind a stiffening, blanched corpse. Machine automation has been hard on the job market, high rates of unemployment have been hard on the population, and misery, usually, is grey.

It just seems like, even on a personal level, all of the bad in the world has been piling up. In a general sort of way, but also lately. My family, even though my mom and dad aren't in the textile business, has been hit pretty hard by the way things have slowed down. Seems weird, because you'd think a teacher and a lawyer would have recession-proof professions.

But when times get tough and kids are getting pulled out of school earlier and earlier to work, schoolteachers seem less important. When all the unemployed men and women on the streets need more attention than the dwindling school population, wages go down to pay for social services that are more in demand. Same for small-time public defense attorneys. Who would have the money, anyway?

Life just kept getting greyer, but up until recently I had a bright spot - had auditioned my way into a Capitol dance company with a 'gimmick' in the form of recruitment from the districts.

I've always been slender and lithe and blonde and blue-eyed, and especially as a kid I was the essence of marketable. Got scouted on the streets, and suddenly everything was pink chiffon and soft velvet leotards and _attention_ \- so much attention. So many people jumping at the chance to call me beautiful. I was five when it started, but I can't remember a life before tight shoes and hot lights on a stage.

The world seems even less colorful, remembering how it used to be so saturated in life and movement. I can feel the gnarled surface of the long wooden benches - one of hundreds lined up in the square in preparation for the reaping - digging into my thighs. I've always had delicate skin, and especially in the seam where my legs join with my torso, I can tell that the weather-smoothed whorls and ridges are leaving their imprints in my flesh.

My dress might be a little too short - I've been getting taller lately. I can remember the sensation too well from the last growth spurt, stretching my calves out with shin pains and turning my steps ungainly in dance classes. When I passed 5'4 at twelve, I started to hear the bells tolling for my career in ballet. I'm 5'9 now, not even done. Well, not done growing. Done dancing.

It was supposed to be my ticket out of District 8, out of the house where my parents fight every night over money, how they're supposed to pay for everything from food to clothing for me and my little brother Bobbin, let alone themselves. They never had to deal with poverty growing up - most of the district has never experienced pure pennilessness - but now we're all facing it together.

Whoever is inventing the machines that power the massive layoffs needs to stop. Someone off in District 3 is getting rich off our misery - that's the word on the street, that District 3 is to blame for all of this. I'm not sure - I try to stay out of politics. But it's hard not to want to blame someone. And they're the ones with oil and steel dust on their hands.

I'm one of the first people in the square, though it's filling up quickly - even if we're hungry and unemployed, the people of District 8 are nothing if not punctual. I just like to beat the 'ten minutes early' rush - waiting in line to get my blood checked and my presence confirmed just makes the whole thing more stressful.

Raschel, a girl who was my friend back when we spent seven hours a day together training for performances, seems to spot me on her way to the seventeens section, cuts through into the fourteens where I sit after checking her watch.

"Hey girl!" she calls, looking too cheerful for the day, too color-saturated for the square's muted shades.

"Hi," I say, a little nervous - we haven't spoken since I got dropped. Not her fault - it's not as though I've been reaching out, making myself available, or leaving the house much. Trying to catch up with all the schoolwork I missed during training - I'm years behind.

"I haven't seen you in forever, Jean!"

She speaks in exclamation points. It's hard to describe her without including that - she is the essence of enthusiasm and dancer-ly perfection. Her thick, pin-straight golden blonde hair is tied back simply and falls like a waterfall over her super-defined back muscles, still somehow half the size of a normal person despite being able to lift twice her own weight. And tiny, too - one or two inches under five feet tall.

I run a hand self-consciously through my mess of curly blonde hair, so light in color that it might as well have been whitewashed. I cropped it short after being dismissed from the company, sort of a rebellious gesture now that I didn't have to have it long enough for complicated buns or braidingwork. But I miss it a lot, not just because I miss dancing, but because it's so curly that when short it practically stands out at a 90 degree angle from my face. The melodramatic haircut, my dad has reminded me more than once, was a mistake.

I thought I just admired her, back when I worked with her, but since then I've realized that I am virulently jealous of everything she is and everything she has.

"I've been really busy," I say, averting my eyes from her radiance. "Trying to catch up with school."

"I totally understand! Still miss you, though."

"It's no big deal - how are Gabardine and Jacquard?"

"You know how Gab is - he misses you more than everyone else combined, and he's so dramatic about it. His boyfriend is half convinced you're someone he needs to be worried about. Ray is so annoyed - Gab's fault, not yours."

Gabardine was my partner in pas de deux competitions, which we used to attend once every few months in District 1. Once, our piece made it to the Capitol - the most incredible two weeks of my life. Gab is twenty-two, but basically seems like a teenager still. He's never done anything but dance.

"Does he have a new partner yet?" I ask, trying to be conversational.

Raschel tugs a strand of her hair absentmindedly - now she's the one who won't meet my eyes. "Well, uh."

"Someone new?" I prompt her, knowing they'd have cycled in a new recruit to replace me immediately.

"I, uh, got picked to partner up with him. Since I was already familiar with your pas."

"Oh," I say, feeling a little like she'd just punched me square in the face.

The only thing I ever had going for me was that I had a great partner and pushed myself to be good enough to match him. I worked twice as hard as anyone else practicing our pas. That was all I ever had that made me even as good as Rachel. I was ungainly, not quite so perfectly proportioned, but Gab and I worked better together than anyone else.

"Sorry," she says tentatively. "He didn't want to tell you, but that just seemed so patronizing… you're not an idiot, you'd figure it out eventually and you deserve to hear it from one of us."

"Yeah," I struggle to say, "thanks."

"I'm gonna… head up to the rest of the seventeens. We should go out some time, get a cup of coffee?"

"Yeah," I say again, still feeling winded as she walks away.

I don't want to tell her that without my wage from the company, I couldn't even remotely afford something like a coffee out at a shop.

Somehow I believed I would keep dancing forever. It was always a crazy long shot, but I just wish now that I had… appreciated it more? I think I appreciated it plenty at the time… it just didn't last long enough to be anything more than a dream I had. Almost nine years, and for what?

I've always had the brains for math and science, my dad says, but I guess I was just too stupid to ever really take advantage of them. Too blinded by the beautiful dresses and the promise that someone actually wanted to look at me, thought I was beautiful.

Now I'm struggling in… everything. Because I'm fourteen but I haven't really been to school since pre-grades. The company tutor was a joke - every spare second went to practice, stretching, pilates, strength training.

I flexed my muscles instead of my brain and thought they would be the thing that helped me run away from this dying district, this train wreck in process, that smells like synthetic fabric and burning plastic and grinding metal gears.

No one else joins me in the fourteens section - not like I actually know anyone my own age. I have - had - been the youngest in the company for a long time, got used to fitting in with people like Gabardine and Raschel.

Our mayor is as grey as the rest of the district, an old woman - probably no more than fifty or so, but aged prematurely by the hardships that have so discerningly leeched the prosperity out of what must have, at some point, been at least a slightly better place to live. We don't yet have a victor, leaving Mayor Lopez on stage alone, awaiting the arrival of our escort as the beginning of the reaping approaches.

She seems even more tired than she usually does, which is saying something.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat on the bench, wondering if any eyes are prickling the back of my neck or it's just the paranoia brought on by the presence of so many cameras. I have always had a good sense of when I'm being watched - it's part of being a good performer, commanding or retreating from an audience while onstage. But I'm not onstage, and I don't want anyone to see me now, with my stupid short hair and my ill-fitting dress. No loaner gown from the company for this event, just me, as I am.

I can feel myself shrinking, I think, or something - maybe just pulling back into myself. Not in a universally bad way - god knows I've got enough to work on internally, dad always said I should try to be smarter, to _think_ for once instead of just trusting things to work out in the end. He was right, but I've been having a hard time adjusting to that way of viewing the world. It's sad, and difficult.

Alexas, our escort, finally joins Mayor Lopez on the stage, and the introductory speech begins not a moment too soon - she is dressed in a modest white gown, her hair a bleached blonde, an odd ghostly green pallor behind her olive skin. She's new this year - no one's specifically mentioned anything happening to our old escort, who just seemed to disappear - but already District 8 seems to be sucking the life out of her countenance.

I watch the way she sits carefully - lovely straight back, perfect posture. I had scoliosis as a child, so posture has always been a sore point for me, my dad's scolding 'keep your back straight, don't slouch' a grave cause for concern in the context of dance, though I learned to work around it.

Mayor Lopez is known for brevity, thank goodness - she turns the stage over to Alexas very quickly, her speech nothing special, tone never rising above a sort of resigned drone. I know the mayor has been working hard, spends a lot of time in the Capital advocating for us, has been seen in interviews with President Lancaster more than once, has every right to be tired. It's still a little disconcerting.

"Good - " Alexas begins, pausing and checking a thin silver watch - "afternoon! And welcome to all of you… I'm so delighted to be here in District Eight with you for the reaping for the 89th annual Hunger Games!"

She looks a little uncertain, but delighted to be speaking before a crowd, even one as lifeless as the pool of potential tributes, the dull-eyed families waiting in stoic silence packed further back in the square.

"We'll begin with the female tribute," she says, in a tone that I can't exactly characterize as 'brisk' - there's some energy there, but no cheer or enthusiasm about it.

Alexas clip-clips in sensible silver heels to the fishbowl for the girls' names, and draws one - the big screens, which introduce an element of cinematographic intent to the mise-en-scene, focus on her pale brown nail beds. She's not as decked out as you'd expect of an escort, and definitely less so than any Capitolite I've interacted with in my stints in the big city. Maybe she's new to the entertainment industry.

I glance at the cameras as she slowly unfolds the slip she's drawn - this is the entertainment industry, if not the way I've grown up with it. District 8 is no gaudy spectacle, no stage set for an elaborate performance, but the Capitol - and the districts - are no less enthralled by the display of the humans assembled here. We didn't just dance in beautiful clothes, portraying beautiful things - there's a spectacle to misery, too. Dancing grief, dancing death - we did it all.

No one's dancing here yet but Alexas, and she's having some trouble negotiating the little scrap of paper with her trimmed-short nails.

"Ah," she says finally. "For our female tribute, Jean Pollack!"

That's me.

I recognize my own name quickly enough - I've heard it on stage often enough, have that ingrained association, stand up compulsively despite the fact that the air has been smacked out of my lungs.

My first fear is that the members of my old company will see me in this poorly fitting dress and think I'm ugly. short haired and too-tall and ugly. I hear my name and I am seen, that's how it works, but I don't want to be seen.

But I'm on the screen now, and I'm part of the production all over again.

My heart is beating so fast. I don't remember getting this nervous on stage. Is it because I'm going to die? Death isn't like, imminent, there's no wild dog in the room with its teeth bared. Why am I afraid? What am I afraid of? I've been thinking about killing myself, though I haven't… admitted it to myself, is this punishment? Did someone hear me think those thoughts? Am I being punished? Do I deserve this?

My legs move without my telling them. I am walking. This is not a dance. I don't know these steps.

Do I deserve this? I wonder, I keep wondering, I can hear people doing something around me but you're not supposed to focus on the audience, I remember that, focus on your body.

"Congratulations, Jean!" Alexas says, that same strange energy in her voice, and I realize with a start that I am onstage.

I can't look at the audience, because my eyes are starting to sting, and they can't see me crying, they can't know how much I care what they think of me, maybe if they watch me die they'll feel something… but you only feel pity for a crying girl, I can't let them see, they already know how my thighs are getting fleshy and my hair looks bad short and I can't afford a new dress, they know I'm weak and disgusting…

I wonder if I willed this into being. I wonder if I willed myself onto this stage.

I think I probably deserve this. If I can't be art in life, I'll be art as a corpse and art on a screen, and I'll only have to disappoint my father one more time when he watches me die instead of over and over again for the rest of my life.

My lip is trembling. I hope I don't look like a pathetic little girl. I probably do. It's not an inaccurate way to describe me.

Alexas calls someone else onto the stage, and I break eye contact with my shoes to see a skinny boy with dark hair and dark skin whose age I would guess at around sixteen - he's got that kind of ungainly look that boys get in-between ages. He's too wide-eyed with terror to notice me much, but trying to suppress it. You can only really see it in the way the corners of his face stretch. I wonder for whose benefit he remains stoic. Does he have faces in the crowd that watch with silent judgement?

My dad always said I sabotaged myself in life by wanting to be looked at. He was right. I wanted it so bad that I willed it into being. I wanted to be seen and to be applauded so badly.

The district is applauding now, in the resigned and perfunctory way that follows a death sentence for two young people. I'll get my beautiful dresses and my trip to the Capitol after all.

Instead of being a useless pretty ballerina I'll be a useless bloodbath tribute.

Can't wait for my parents to visit so he can say he told me so.

Alexas ushers us towards the steps down from the stage, and, beneath the lights and before the crowd, I feel a sick muscle-memory impulse to bow. I guess you could say I've been trained for this.

Just not in the way that'll keep me alive.

x

 _So, uh, it's summer again, and while I'm working full time now there's a bit of a respite at work. We'll see how this goes._


	17. Damask, District 8

Decorated with a Variegated Pattern

Damask Bhatti

x

Good animal yet perfect

citizen, you, you are

biodegradable, you will

return to nature: you _will_

your body to the nearest

hospital, changing death into small

change and spare parts;

dismantling, not de-

composing

'Death and the Good Citizen', A. K. Ramanujan

x

I'm not big on dressing up and showboating, though I don't guess anyone really is in District 8. Not much to showboat. Even if I had much worth showing off, though, I think I'm more of a simple-joys kind of guy than most. I like spending time with my boys, dicking around at work when I get the chance, showing up at school some days and skipping other days.

It's not smart to aim too high. Been learning that all my life. The thread that's wound too tight may be fine and thin and look sound and sturdy, but it'll be the first one to snap when the time comes. My dad was that guy, and I learned from him first, and everyone else in the world second. It's setting your expectations too high that gets you.

Keeping it low, following the grain of the cloth - that's how life leads you through the path of minimal resistance. Nothin wrong with that. The world needs laborers to pack and shift bolts of cloth same as it needs escorts on reaping day and presidents of Panem. No harm in finding a place and making the best of it. Lots of harm to be had in not sticking where you're meant to stick.

When I was two or three, not too long in the aftermath of the Mockingly Rebellion, my dad - kind of a big name in the cleanup effort, one of the few locals who hadn't been so involved int he fighting to get fucked up for his troubles, decided to go all in and front for the costs of rebuilding a brand new factory - refurbishing the old machines, bringing in new workers, putting up the cash for a shitton of the raw materials to make good cloth. High grade shit. It was going to be a big deal - District 8 was on the comeup. Rebuilding. Rebranding! And here he was, a son of a laborer who was the son of another laborer, buying property - big deal.

Might not seem like it to someone who's had a lot, but owning a business - even if it meant sinking himself neck deep in debt to get it started - was a big deal for my dad. Owning something. He'd been dead set on getting him and my mom and my big sister and me through the fighting alive. Got used to fighting, I guess. Wanted a new fight.

Not eight months in, some new bullshit from District 3 rolls in. At least, that's how he tells it - they were rebuilding too, thought they could help us out with some shiny silver automation to do our jobs for us. For a price. Not the sort of price someone who's drowning in debt can afford.

He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Wrong time on account of the shift that happened so fast, if you'd blinked you coulda missed it - the factory work dried up, since the chrome machines could do our jobs better than we could. Folks started clamoring for my dad to hire them, but not like he could when he couldn't match the quality of production from the District 3 equipment with his slapdash refurbished machines, half of them still blackened from bombing.

By the time I was five, the dream was dead - the golden, hopeful thread had snapped. My dad lost his business, he lost his investment, and to top the whole pile of steaming shit off, he lost my mom.

Not like she died. Just left. No use for a man who couldn't hardly take care of her, whose name was a liability putting down a lease on a new house, who the community disdained for his failure and for the tens of workers who lost their jobs when he folded. She got out and brought me with her, along with my older sister Sateen.

I say 'sister' loosely. I've got no real fondness for Teeny, as my mom still calls her. My dad thought the nickname was stupid. She's pushing twenty, already married off, and my mom talking on the phone with her still sounds like she's having an intense gossip session with a toy poodle. Fucking 'Teeny', sure, okay.

While I can't claim we're bad off - I'm better off than most of my boys, actually, haven't quite had to drop out yet, got my part time job and that's my spending money, not paying rent yet. But I know my dad is. I haven't seen him in months, and last time I did, he was in bad shape.

I'm kinda torn on him I guess. On the one hand, buddy, you can't make a reach like that and just expect nothing will go wrong. You can't just trust a woman who was with you in the first place because you could keep her safe to stick around when you can't. That's just life, and that's just women. Hard not to think he was kind of a dumbass for that, y'know.

At the same time, he's my dad, and I didn't get my mom's 'heartless bitch' genes like Sateen did. It's hard to know flesh and blood is out there suffering, barely hanging on to one job or another month to month. They shipped in District 3 workers along with the machines - supposed to just train us on how to do the jobs they did, then phase out - but they haven't phased out yet, exactly, and those workers send their wages back to District 3, and their kids get fat while ours starve. Fucked up. Not like we had the chance to learn how to do the things they did in school - at least my dad's generation, they learned about cloth and how to handle it, not how to oil some machine or press buttons in a pattern. It's hard for the older guys. It's only gonna get harder once the kids my age start horning in on the job market too, I bet - we actually know how to work the line, not the way the line used to be worked, but they way the 'temps' from District 3 do. I dunno how society's gonna take it once the old guys start getting replaced with their own sons.

Y'know, I think I have some fairly good thoughts in my head. But I'm also smart enough to know it's not my job to be on a street corner yelling about this shit. I'm just here to fuck around and enjoy the decline.

Waiting for the reaping to begin, I briefly find myself wondering where my dad is. He'd have to be in the square, or dead some time in the last few months. But he's able-bodied enough to do grunt work, doesn't seem too likely to have checked out yet.

Sateen and my mom showed up on the far end of early, though Sateen is probably just cuddling up to some idiot guy with a stick up his ass and money in his pocket back in the crowd of people no longer eligible for the reaping.

I'm in the sixteens' section with my boys, doing my thing, because what else is there to do? It's not so bad just hanging out with a bunch of guys from work and school - they're good, salt-of-the-earth kinda guys. Batik and Serge, two other sixteen year olds from the after-school weekday crew moving shipments of high-grade fabrics onto the trains for delivery to the inner circle of districts. That includes District 3, a topic we're discussing while we wait for the escort to arrive and the ceremony to begin. Serge's twin sister Ramie, who thinks she knows shit but doesn't, is mostly driving the conversation.

"District Four has always gotten shipments from y'all's factory," she's saying, and 'annoyingly' would be an okay adjective. "I don't know how come finding out Three gets them too just suddenly sticks a rock in your gin."

"It's a matter of principal," Batik argues. "Ethics. Like, they're fucking us over, right? Half the supervisors are farmed in from Three. We're just supposed to bend over and take it?"

"What's the alternative? You gonna break the machines?" Ramie insists.

"Shut up, Ramie," Serge groans. "Don't be a tightass."

"I'm just making conversation," she says defensively.

Serge and Batik both look at me - I've been a little zoned out, I guess. Not like they'd blame me for not getting involved in the political talk. I know I'm not going to convince a bleeding heart like Ramie of anything. She's just a receptionist, half the people she works with are from District 3. She'd never get what it's like to have your job ripped away from you, or like, even threatened. The threat is hard.

"Conversation?" I say. "I was just tuning out all the whining. Literally no one cares about this stuff, guys. It is what it is."

" _It is what it is_ ," Batik repeats, mockingly. "You sound like a bitch, Dam."

"I'm not the one here trying to go toe to toe with a girl, man. Only bitch is the one who thinks rehashing this shit's gonna change anything."

"Hey, you don't fuckin' talk to me-" Batik starts to say, but the escort has made it onto the stage - on time, but even us assholes showed up early.

"Shut up," Serge says again, and Ramie sits up primly, looking like she'd rather be sitting with someone other than her dick brother and his friends.

I guess I call my boys my friends, but some people might disagree as to exactly what that means. I don't live in the hope that I'm going to knit together with anyone in a way that's special - I even kinda like the idea of being unmoored, of someday just disappearing from my mom's house and starting a new life with no real reason other than getting out and doing me somewhere else, maybe more authentically for a change of scenery. I trust my ability to keep myself alive by doing hard work when a boss tells me to, no shame in that - from there, though, I don't have any high goals of connecting emotionally with anyone or making some special relationship.

Like, for the most part it's not worth doing. Pretty much everyone is shitty and self-obsessed. No harm in admitting it and admitting that I'm pretty much the same way, like - it's what it is!

The escort looks sick, I think. Kind of grey around the gills. I don't know how you can live in a place like the Capitol and look so drab, like she's not even making an effort. Pretty pathetic, to get high enough on the ladder in an industry like the Games and to just give up, especially when you know she probably got her job just because she was good looking in the first place.

Not that I see that. Or am thinking of that. I have kind of a shitty relationship with women - the idea of them as well as the actual ones who exist in my everyday life. Like, when I say people are shitty, I'm talking about men. Women are a special kind of shitty and manipulative, like a tier down as a rule. You kind of have to accept that they're necessary for some things, but I don't have to like them, and I think I'm better off for keeping my distance.

Is it a resentful way to live? Uh, maybe, but like … half the time when someone tries to sell me back to women, back when Batting started dating the girl he's hitched to now, he was so sure he was gonna change all our minds just because he's found one of like three girls in the universe who doesn't lead with looks and emotional manipulation and follow with bleeding any man in the vicinity dry he's found a princess? The exception proves the rule here - this girl's not contributing any more than anyone else in his life, but low-ass expectations have him putting her on a pedestal because she's putting out and not actively fucking him over, yet.

But, like, overall I'm just not down for any more interaction with them than I need to. I don't have enough in my pocket to draw girls like flies, but someday when I have a stable job I might have to deal with that. I'm already frustrated in anticipation of what I know will be the scenario ten years from today.

For now though they got nothing to gain from me and fuck knows I have nothing to gain from them.

I just have to keep my head down - know I'm young and I'll probably get more attractive and successful with age, and in the mean time, trust the system. Trust it because there's nothing I can do or want to do to change it.

The escort has called the first name - Jean, I think, I was zoning out a little. Common name. The girl who walks up is an ungainly kind of tall, skinny as a knitting needle top to bottom, with a mass of unruly blonde hair that sticks out with the density of its curls. She looks petrified.

She should be - coming from, what, the fourteens? This little blonde thing doesn't have a finger's chance in a loom.

I've always seen the reaping as something like a punishment - like, it's meant to cut people who start acting too high and mighty down to size, levels rich and poor to an extent. That's good shit, right - fear of a thing that brings us together. And a scary fucking thing it is, much as I'd rather not think about that as the escort is picking the name from the men's bowl - such a waste, just throwing away a man's life, knowing full well the odds are stacked against our district, for what, a spectacle?

It's … I don't know, I have mixed feelings and I don't know which is real, the fear or the acceptance. All I want to do, all I've ever wanted to do, is put my head down and do things by the book, get through life right, do my job, have a laugh with my boys and go home for a good night's sleep, that's all - that's the contract, live here, do your best, have a time, go home. The reward for keeping your head down, not murdering anyone no matter how stupid and vapid and cruel.

But suddenly it's a lot harder to keep my head down, because that's unmistakably my name that the escort has just called - Damask Bhatti.

I stand but I can feel myself not processing, can feel my boys shrinking back away from me as I stumble imperceptibly on my way into the aisle.

What? I almost want to shout, but that's one of eighty different impulses surging through my brain - grab a peacekeeper's gun, just bolt, break down crying, what … what is ….

It feels like it takes me half an hour to make it to the stage and I know I'm sweating, just hope it's not that obvious that I can't even form a coherent thought - standing next to the pitiable girl, who is taller than she looked from the audience, taller than me. I hope she can't tell how terrified I am. They can smell fear and I can't … there's nothing I can do! I always just thought … or I never thought … never thought this could happen?

It doesn't seem real. Maybe it's not real. A stress dream. I'll wake up on my little futon, my mom nagging me to get up and go to class, I'll wake up, I'll wake up from this and things will make sense -

This just isn't fair, it's not, I did everything right. I did everything right.

The escort stands between me and the blonde girl and holds our hands in the air, like the audience isn't witnessing a fucking travesty - fuck - I don't want to die.

I just don't want to die. I'm only sixteen. I didn't do anything wrong. I didn't do anything to deserve this. I don't want to die.

I'm going to die.

x

 _Every chapter I'm like 'okay, this time I'll switch it to M' but I don't._


	18. Bian, District 9

Woman with Secrets

Bian Mai

x

Yet my anguish, such as it is,  
remains the struggle for form

and my dreams, if I speak openly,  
less the wish to be remembered  
than the wish to survive,  
which is, I believe, the deepest human wish.

'Lute Song', Louise Glück

x

Tears, and that's all. Shock, like a thunderbolt to my heart. Fire that spreads like a field ignited in the dry months of winter through my chest, to my fingertips and the lining of my lungs.

It's because I know what I am losing when the high-cheekboned man – escort – reads my name aloud, reverberating all the way back to where I wait in the eighteens from a hundred hidden speakers interspersed around the square. It hits me so hard. It hurts.

I'm standing with casual acquaintances, none of them in possession of the faces I want to see – which almost panics me, because I am too winded and shattered and on fire to process that, yes, I will see my loved ones, I will see them before they take me – they will take me, though, oh I need to get to the stage oh – so they can take me. And I'm back where I started, next to a few laborers whose breaks line up enough with mine to know a few of their names. Simultaneously frozen, destroyed, and hovering eighty meters above the square, too far away from my body to so much as lift my head to see the tears welling in my eyes in high definition on the big screens.

When I finally pick up my feet, it's habit, not any sense of agency that guides me to the stage. I work in the fields, my body knows how to walk even if my brain knows only how to cry and hum with fear and grief. My muscles know what walking is. Thick and coiled around my calves and thighs, they know these motions. I find no comfort in them. I walk and I float and I die twenty times in my head as I make my way to the stage.

I feel her eyes even though I couldn't see them from this distance – couldn't turn around and search, either. From the ineligible spectator crowds in the far corners of the square, I feel her. Two years removed from this flesh-hungry flour mill of a practice, the reaping – that's what we do here in District 9, we sow and reap the wheat while they do the same to us, and there are seasons where we die just as the grain dies and the earth dies when the sky gets cold. She'll meet me in the Justice Building and we'll cry together. That's a comforting thought. Omri, soft lips soft hair Omri, will be with me before I die. And she won't be with me when it happens, and she'll stay soft, maybe, and I'll come home in a box that she'll force herself to open and – I can't think like this, I'm almost on stage.

In a moment of cognizance, I wipe the tears from my eyes and try to stand straighter. I may not have the heart for this, but I have the body from years of labor. I'm near to 5'6, tall for District 9, solid enough in stature to bale hay, to haul grain, to do whatever is asked of me, to lift Omri as though she were a pet cat rather than my girlfriend of three years. My close-cropped dark hair spares me the trouble of plaiting it back as most of the women on the labor shifts must, to keep it out of the way of machinery or their eyes.

Omri's hair is long, to the small of her back, thick and blue-black and with a gentle sort of curl towards the end. It's important to her that it's long, but she says she loves my short hair, never hesitates to ruffle it with slender brown fingers when I hold her.

It's something beyond unfair that they would take me away from her.

The escort, Oswald, holds my hand aloft in his, congratulates me – he's not too much taller than I am, I notice, now that my eyes are dry, though it still feels like I am watching a stranger interact with my body, I can barely feel it. He goes to draw the next name, and I focus on the actions of his hands instead of crying – they are slim and manicured, in contrast to mine, square and rough with callouses.

You can tell a lot about a person by their hands – mine speak of hard work. Omri's of a different kind of work, a thickened ridge where her pen rests as she takes notes as a stenographer in trade meetings. Some show no sign of having connected with anything extrinsic to the body, a different kind of beauty. Oswald's hands are of this sort. Uniformly golden brown, perfect nails that draw the name he pulls as if by magnetism deftly unfurl the slip.

"Andre Ocampo!" He says aloud, and I am almost startled to hear a voice I can recognize as a voice, in patterns that I understand.

I don't know the poor boy's name, but I see him immediately on the screen. Complexion the color of chaff, straight dark hair in a bowl cut, big black eyes – I check where he is standing. Thirteen. A child.

He must think the world is ending. Children, who haven't lived so long, have time to really think in that sort of moment. In a way someone like me, with so much to lose and so much impact to bear, simply can't. He's right, if he thinks that. Our world is ending. The endless fields and patchwork farming vehicles will disappear behind us. Neither of us is coming home – not a shred of hope for either of us, me for my useless heart and slow, methodical brain, him for – as I see more clearly projected on the screen – his lack of stature or muscular definition. Too young, rich, or both to be working yet. A shame, maybe, he might be thinking. Five years and perhaps he'd have six extra inches of height and some meat on his bones. There's determination in his dark gaze, but more a child's facsimile of confidence than anything I'd believe. I don't envy him for his delusion.

There are eyes all over us. I focus on thinking about Omri's – warm and black and liquid, comforting. I can't see them, but I feel them on my back as the Peacekeepers begin to usher me after the young boy – Andre – towards the edge of the stage, where we can be shuffled down the stairs and towards the massive building that makes the backdrop of the reaping. I'll see Omri there.

And probably Omri is the only person who will come and say goodbye to me – my parents didn't disown me when they found out how I was and the way I loved women instead of men, but they weren't exactly pleased, either. Children are important, especially to aging parents, and having already lost my older brothers, two to marriage and one to an accident in a processing factory when I was very young, they didn't look at my being with another woman with what you would call delight.

Since then, we haven't spoken much. I know my father was very ill when last I heard about his whereabouts – maybe even ill enough to be permitted to miss the reaping, and my mother home to care for him. No one lives that long in District 9. We do dangerous work, and much past 65 is profoundly unexpected if not reason to celebrate. My dad is pushing that age – at eighteen, I was their last attempt at a child, a daughter to be a caretaker, though I'm not much of a caretaker.

The steps to the massive marble building don't wind me at all, but I can see little Andre is struggling – he might object to my calling him that. But he is very small, and his build is slight, and he apparently lacks even the reedy strength of an active youth. I feel for him almost more than I feel for myself, in some ways. Not all ways.

My heart is breaking for me, too.

Cool air hits my face as the Peacekeepers gesture us through the tall doors – air conditioning, a luxury in most of the district, something that I rarely have the chance to savor except for business at the former justice building and occasionally when meeting with managers at work, though those visits are few and far between and the air conditioning in the branch office is a weak little window unit that doesn't do all that much good.

"Right this way, Bian," one of the Peacekeepers tells me, pointing towards a door only slightly less ornate than the first I walked in – I'm impressed by how quickly the tall, beefy woman has learned my name.

"Thank you," I say mechanically. For what? Thanks for caring just enough to know who I am as I am ushered to my death. Thanks for nothing, really.

She opens the door for me, and I'm briefly saddened by the empty room. My heart is aching to see Omri. She must not have made it to the building yet. The furnishings of the meeting room are plush, but I barely feel the red crushed velvet of the couch beneath the thin cotton of my clothing.

The air smells a little like soap, like the carpet may have been cleaned recently. Now that I've been still for a minute, I realize that my face must be an absolute mess of tears – I'm abruptly self-conscious, though I have no real reason to be. I deserve a moment to cry and to feel my life being ripped away from me. I deserve to break down. It's my right.

As I'm trying to mop my face together, the door opens and a woman enters – but not Omri.

I stiffen as I recognize my mother.

"Where's dad?" I ask her, hoping not to sound too brusque, my voice still thick from crying.

She shuffles nervously, looking very small and old. "Bian, your father isn't coming."

"Is he sick, or dead?" I push, looking up, ready for either answer.

"He's … passed away."

"When?"

"Last month. We reached out to you and … Omri, when he was close," she says, a little defensively, almost.

I remember a letter that Omri saved for me, addressed to me from my parents. She was worried about what it might be about. I burned it rather than reading it, both to settle her concerns and to ease the anxiety rising like bile in my throat at the thought of speaking to my parents, when our last conversation had amounted to my being disowned and kicked out of the house.

"I didn't get word," I lie. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Without another word, my mother breaks down weeping, looking like she almost wishes she had any right to hug me. She doesn't, but I stand anyway, gesture her towards me.

I can give her this. I can afford to give her this. Her suffering is nothing to mine, but I can offer her some comfort – and it would feel wrong to deny her something that doesn't cost me much.

"Omri is waiting outside," she tells me tearfully, and I feel something close to anger well in my chest.

"You wouldn't let her come in with you? Mom, what's wrong with you?"

The Peacekeepers would absolutely have denied entry to an 'informal acquaintance' over a blood relative if the blood relative insisted on it.

"Are you still upset about her, mom? I'm about to die, and you won't be in the same room with her?"

She won't meet my eyes. I release my tentative hug.

"Go on, then, if you don't really care about me – your life will be no different without me in it. Get out of here. Leave me with Omri. Leave me to die. I don't care."

I square my shoulders, cross my arms. I hadn't really hoped this would change anything. Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt as I watch my mother turn her back on me and leave.

I don't even have a second of solitude to process the encounter before – blessedly – Omri enters the room.

She's crying worse than I was, her big beautiful eyes positively swimming with tears. I can't wait – I take her by the waist and hold her to my chest and begin to cry all over again into her soft, plaited hair.

"Bian, Bian, Bian," she whispers. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry it wasn't me, I'm so sorry I can't save you from this, Bian, I love you, I love you, I love you."

For a very long time, we sit and I cry and she traces her gentle hands up and down my back and the love in her touch just makes me cry more and harder than I did even when I first heard my name.

"I'm so sorry," I echo back to her, once I have words. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry," she tells me. "Come home."

"I can't, you know I can't."

"I won't ask anything of you that you can't do, but Bian, you're the strongest person I know – the most beautiful woman I've ever met. You're so strong, I can't…. I can't imagine …. Bian, I can't imagine, I don't want to, I just want to walk out of here with you and go home, I made porridge for dinner, it's sitting on the stove, there's enough for two, please …"

"I won't just … roll over," I tell her. "But you know I can't… you know I'm not the way I'd need to be."

"You're perfect," she insists.

"I don't have it in my heart, not even for you."

"Try!" she pleads. "Please, I don't know what I'll do without you."

Omri's parents were even less approving than mine, which is to say, actively antagonistic. I have no doubt that without me and my income to help support her, she'll be forced back into their arms – her job is not a well-paid one, and won't stretch to cover the rent to our little home alone.

"There's a stipend, I think," I tell her, my mind racing – confronting her peril, as I've been selfishly occupied for so long with my own. "They pay a little to the families of the … of the tributes, when they … don't win."

"Bian, we're not married," Omri sobs. "They won't, they won't allow it."

"I can try! I can ask. I'll tell them my parents are dead. I'll tell them I'm an orphan. I'll try, Omri – I won't win, you know I won't win, but maybe I can keep you safe."

I think the stipend increases the longer the tribute survives – a sick incentive for districts and families to tune in, in the absence of the former mandate that all households watch. A consolation prize.

Maybe I can't win, but I can last – I can outlast the bloodbath, maybe, and just maybe I can talk some of that money into Omri's purse rather than my mother's. I was disowned, after all. I wonder how much that counts for.

Through both of our tears, I bring Omri's beautiful face up to my own for a kiss that deepens and lasts longer than expected, damp but still sweet and wonderful.

"I love you," I whisper. "I'll find a way to keep you safe."

I am lost. All I can live for now is the beautiful woman in my arms, the only love in my life. I can live for Omri. I will live as long as I can.

 _x_

 _So, uh, I'm backish._


	19. Andre, District 9

Masculine and Brave

Andre Ocampo

x

I felt from looking away in order

to think myself into trafficking wherever

one was raised and therefore became

December in the spirit of a cigarette,

yet, perhaps, to begin without having to be

in a room trembling from trains passing,

nay, forging through and through a key

to praise forests there in the uppercase,

and every other page waiting for an ark

'On the evenings of November', Francisco Guevara

x

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

It's not as hard as it sounds, because focusing on one body function – don't cry don't cry don't cry – keeps my mind away from the thoughts that might be pushing me towards tears, thoughts of death and pain….

Just don't cry.

The Peacekeepers aren't rough with me and the older girl who got called first – Bian, a big and broad-shouldered woman with hair cropped close to her scalp, sort of pretty but not in the way you'd think to call 'pretty' off the top of your head. They haven't been rough in a long time, on orders from the Capitol. They're better trained than they were when my parents were my age, when the white-armored men and women, mostly from District 2 or the Capitol, treated us worse than the bosses in the fields.

At least, my dad says bitterly, the bosses had a vested interest in keeping us alive. District 9 was always a hotbed of abuses by the Peacekeepers, back before the Mockingjay Rebellion. One of the reasons we were the first to rebel – they paid attention to that, and changed, to avoid it happening again.

I don't know what to think about that, really, because I'm almost jealous of my parents, who had a clear enemy, something to fight. In comparison, I can't help but think about how useless I am, stuck in school, barely past the age of thirteen, when by this point my dad had followed his older brother into the local resistance, helped guard the local groups of underground aid distributors as they brought stolen supplies to the fieldworker slums. My mom was part of the evangelical groups that also emerged and gained strength as District 9 languished under the Capitol's thumb.

And I spend my days learning vocabulary and arithmetic, and it just seems so … weak, in comparison? Where's my chance to do something big, be part of something important?

Be careful what you wish for, I guess.

This can't be anything but random. My mom, who still believes in God and plans and stuff, would probably disagree – would call this an opportunity to martyr myself, probably not to my face, but in the long term, she'll find peace in that sort of idea. My dad, whose opinions matter a whole lot more to me than hers, would definitely agree with me, though. Bad luck. How else does a thirteen year old end up in the Hunger Games?

I like that he talks to me like I'm an adult, even though I know I'm not and I'm sure he does too – but I appreciate him playing along.

At the back of my brain, buried under the repetition of 'don't cry' that's currently governing most of my thought process, I'm almost … in the worst possible way… I'm almost excited, in a really messed up way. It's so messed up. I can't think about this. I can't cry.

I run my fingers over the thick fabric of the chair I'm sitting on – it's a gold-ish green with red and yellow-gold embroidery, flowers and shapes standing out from the satiny base, catching my rough fingertips. These are fancy digs. Much nicer than the nicest places I'd be spending time. The principal's office in school, the waiting room at the hospital from the one time I thought I had a broken ankle.

The hospitals in District 9 are all brand new. We didn't use to have them, before – it was all apothecaries or little clinics. But not District 6 ships doctors all throughout the districts, and while we're mostly served by trainees and district practitioners, not the fancy Capitol types, people don't die so much of infections and broken bones and having babies as they used to.

They're new buildings, though, so they're really fancy, even if they see a lot of use from sick people. The Capitol built them for us, to help start to make amends.

Sometimes my dad has his old friends from the Mockingjay Rebellion over, the ones who are still alive, and they don't think much of the hospitals. More grudgingly accept how bad they're needed, but think of them as a smokescreen for how we're still not really free, we're still bound to the bosses and the politicians, even if they give us nicer things now. All the hospitals really do is keep us from rioting in the streets, my dad says.

Mom doesn't like it when he talks like that – she has a job cleaning up one of the hospitals, sort of like maid work, but she thinks they're about the best thing that's ever happened to the district. Won't hear a word in their criticism. I get it, I guess, it's really good to know that if I get sick I'll have medicine and it won't cost anything.

I can't imagine a world where people can't afford to be healthy. I know not all districts got these kinds of reparations though – that's one of my dad's favorite topics, his best argument about how the Capitol didn't give us these buildings and these medicines because they respect us and our right to be alive. They gave District 9 hospitals because they thought District 9 needed hospitals to be stable. Grain production is important, and the Mockingjay Rebellion struck a tremendous blow back in the day by torching the fields.

They care about the fields, my dad says, and the bodies that take the grain from them. Not about life.

If they cared about life, would they kill 21 of us per year in the Hunger Games?

But I like the hospitals, and I don't want to act like they're bad, because they're not. It's just confusing, having parents who disagree so much – and like I get that my dad is probably right, because he's so smart, but sometimes I worry that he tries too hard to find the bad in things.

Like, when it comes down to it, the doctors at the hospital gave me pills to make my ankle stop hurting and an x-ray to make sure it wasn't broken.

Something like that is better than having nothing, I think. My mom was so proud that I was able to get such good care at the hospital she cleans.

I can't wait to see my parents now, and they'll probably bring in my little sisters, too – twins, Leah and Martha, barely two years old. My parents held off a long time after having me, since times were hard for a while as the district was working to revitalize all of the burned fields, and much of our equipment was mangled. They brought in new machines from District 3, which helped, but ruffled feathers with the workers worried they'd be replaced.

Luckily, a lot of the labor in the fields really has to have a human element, so most people were able to keep their jobs or relearn new trades – District 9 has always had strong schools, necessary to educate everyone from the farmers to the tradesmen to the agriculturalists who churn out new fertilizers and treatments to combat pests. Not all districts can say that – I know districts with the weakest schools have had the hardest time coming back from the Mockingjay Rebellion.

That's why my parents are so insistent I stay in school, I think – they know the value of education, they know it's helped my father move up from being just a laborer to now a mechanic who services the machines that edged him out of his role in the harvest.

Doesn't matter anymore, though. Might as well have dropped out years ago for all a few years of biology and math are gonna do for me against the Careers.

They've gotten stronger, too – their systems have gotten stronger. My dad watches the Games even when he doesn't have to, and when my mom isn't around to keep me away from it I watch the Games too. He said it's like a silo on fire – there's nothing he can do, but he can't help but watch.

I wonder if he'll watch me. I know he will. The thought compresses my stomach into a pit like the center of a stone fruit. I can't cry. I won't cry. I want to see them, though I know it will release the floodgates. I want to see my family. My little sisters.

I… I'm glad my parents will have them, when they don't have me.

I can't think about this anymore. I pick at the embroidery on my chair, but it's too high quality to pull out the stitches. Poor District Eight. These are too tight to be made by hand. More machines. Machines cause so much trouble.

By the time the door opens and I see my parents and my sisters, I've fought myself back from the edge of tears three times. I feel small and helpless in the big chair, in the big room – if I had just had more time to grow –

My father is a big man. I'm still gangly and not too tall, but I could have been, if I could have been in the fields by now, if they hadn't kept me in school, what am I supposed to do with all this math now? This useless math?

Wordlessly, my mom runs to me – she's not so big, but stronger than you would think to look at her. Her heavy dark hair is always pulled back into a neat bun, easier to tuck it into her sanitary cap for when she cleans at work. She's been crying. Her dark eyes are swimming in tears.

I _can't_ cry. But she holds me close and it's all I want to do. I want to cry and cling to her and hold tight to her and go home, I want to go _home_! This room is too nice, it's stiff and foreign and wrong. And I know wherever they take me next will be the same. I'll never feel at home again.

I want to punch myself for thinking like this – don't cry! Don't be a baby!

My dad is suddenly with me too, and Leah and Martha holding tight to my legs and my dad putting his arms around me and my mom and my sisters… it's wordless and the most comforting thing I can imagine but still not enough. My eyes feel hot. My mother's sobs hit me right in my heart and I just … I wish I could say something to make it better, I wish I didn't just want to sob forever myself.

"Andre," my dad says quietly. "You're being very stoic, and I'm proud of you. You don't have to keep a straight face, but I'm proud of how hard you're working."

"Thanks," I choke.

 _Don't cry._

My mom has nothing to say. She looks even tinier than I feel, out of her work uniform, in clothes that don't fit all that well – she never lets herself have nice things. She was raised thinking it was evil to have nice things for yourself. I wish I could do something to help her – she works so hard, she does so much, she isn't smart and sharp like my dad but she has always given our family everything she has.

"I'm so proud of you," my dad says again, and his voice is about an octave too low – he's fighting back tears himself. "Please, please know how proud of you I am. You are – have been – are such a good son. The best son anyone could ask for."

It feels fake – impossible. I haven't had time to be a good son. I haven't had time to do anything to actually earn my father's praise. I doubt that I ever will. I'll never have the chance to amount to anything. I'll never become something better or do anything great – I'll never have a family to love the way my mom does or have a mission the way my dad does.

This is all I'll ever be, and that hurts – that hurts so badly. Knowing this is all I can be. Because I haven't done much of anything.

"You don't have to be a martyr, you know," my dad tells me.

"What else can I be?" I hear myself ask, though my voice feels thin and far away. "What else is there?"

He pulls me into another crushingly tight hug.

"Keep doing what I've always taught you – speak truth to power. Protect yourself and anyone else you can. Be smart. That's what you can do. That's what you always do, Andre – you're young, but you're not stupid, okay?" he murmurs. "You're my son. My only son. I'm so proud of you. I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you from this."

That's it. I'm crying. Not the disgusting snotty sobbing kind I was afraid of, but the tears in my eyes have spilled over and I can't hold them back anymore.

"You don't have to protect me anymore," I tell my family. "It's just like this now."

My mom finally has more of a handle on herself, though she looks old and tired and still damp.

"My son," she whispers. "I'm sorry that He has dealt you this hand. I'm sorry that this is a burden you have to bear. I love you so much. His love will follow you. His love will bring you home."

I can't scoff at her faith at a time like this, but He'll bring me home alright – in a pine box.

But let her believe, let her pray for me. I just wish it could be worth something.

Leah and Martha are both crying too, though more out of confusion than anything – they're just so young. I feel a stab of pain at the thought that they won't be safe from this. My parents will have to watch them stand in the same crowds that I stood in, their names in the same bowls as mine and Bian's.

This has been happening to families for almost a century. Maybe in this same room, even? It's hard to imagine. All the pain and the crying and the waste.

I wipe my eyes. It seems like a useless gesture, but at least I'm not sniffling like a baby. I'm not a baby.

Maybe I don't deserve my father's pride, but I'll try to. I'll try to deserve it as I go to my death. It's all I can do. It's all I can do to stop crying and act like the sort of son he can actually be proud of.

But I'll do it. I'll do my best. My mom will pray, my dad will watch, and I will … try. I'll put dying off as long as I can.

I wish I didn't have to. I wish I could just follow them out the door, once the Peacekeepers come and take them away – I wish I could just be a little baby thirteen year old and let myself cry. But I can't. I won't.

I will _not_ cry anymore.


	20. Charlotte, District 10

Little Brave One

Charlotte Reed

x

Learn Lord will not distort nor leave the fray.  
Behind the scurryings of your neat motif  
I shall wait, if you wish: revise the psalm  
If that should frighten you: sew up belief  
If that should tear: turn, singularly calm  
At forehead and at fingers rather wise,  
Holding the bandage ready for your eyes.

The Children of the Poor, Gwendolyn Brooks

x

Only twelve, so sad, only twelve – everyone in the square scrambling to be sad on my behalf, might as well be a bunch of stupid smelly sheep for all the good it does me that they're all doing the same thing, saying the same thing, whispering the same stupid thing as I'm called up to stage. In my little brown flats and my hair in a pleat down to my waist, I don't bother fighting back the tears and the fear and the – it feels like my heart is getting crushed under a hoof, but I'm standing!

Someone would volunteer if they really cared, but they don't. Not like I have an older sister to save the day. A younger one, Ashley. Eleven. Little brother Toby. Six. Both kinda bratty anyway, to be honest. Two older brothers. Micah might if he could, he's fourteen and kind of an idiot, but in a good way. Colin just thinks I'm annoying. Eighteen. Bet this spoils his last reaping for him, I think through my tears.

My body is shaking and crying but my brain is just thinking. Not just about my siblings or my parents, but about God. I'm sure He wouldn't want me to die, that's not like what anyone says about God. He wouldn't want me to be embarrassed about crying. Jesus cried when they killed him, I bet, even if no one talks about that part. I don't want to be like Jesus so much. That was his job.

Last night mama said since it was my first reaping I could put on some mascara for this one, so I was proud of that. God doesn't like it when you're proud. He's not punishing me but he's probably frowning at how I let her put brown paint over my thin blonde eyelashes so my eyes looked big. I can see myself in the big screens, paint running down my cheeks, I look like a stupid little girl playing dress-up and that only makes me cry harder and feel even more like a helpless little baby who no one is going to save, not even God. Not even my parents. No one can do anything for me. I can't even make myself stop crying – I look so weak! But I can't care, I might as well be dead already.

The escort tries to put her bony old hand around my shaking shoulders and I quick-shimmy away. Her skin is too tight. She's older than she looks. She's prouder and vainer than me. I know God doesn't love her as much as He loves me. But He let me be punished like this anyway. I know her time will come. It always comes for the people who deserve it. I also know I'm a sinner, like they say every Sunday, but I didn't think I'd earn it so soon. I thought I could be forgiven, maybe. Or maybe He's just bringing me to heaven sooner. I don't think I've done anything too bad lately.

I dodge the hand again. She goes to pick the boy's name. I am struck with the fear that it will be one of my brothers – I try to find their faces in the crowd, feeling selfish for a second, then realizing that I am blind with tears. I can't stop crying. I can't stop thinking either. I wonder if I could run away, what would happen to me? Would they shoot me? Would it hurt much?

Peacekeepers haven't shot anyone here in a long time, but there's still lots to be afraid of with their guns. God hates guns and the people who carry them. That's what they say on Sunday. They say he hates people who go above their station with tools that give them power over life and death. I'm scared, thinking of how many sinners I'm going to meet – the early districts, steeped in sin with their machines and their guns and their training centers, all of it just wrong and evil, not how it's supposed to be, us tending the animals or the plants like they do in District 11, serving God and our families and our orders. We can hate the peacekeepers, but not the orders. God said the meek are blessed. I guess there's nothing more meek than a twelve year old about to die. I guess this is a real blessing. The stupid sheep in the crowd don't think so, though.

The escort calls a name, and it's not my brothers' names. I can imagine how relieved they must be. Even if they'll say something like how they wish they could go in and protect me when I say goodbye – it's not true. If it was true they'd do it, not just talk about it. They're not Jesus. He's already dead.

I am still kind of struggling with the not crying. The boy she called isn't having the same problem. He's a big one, not like tall but big in the shoulders – the sheep have stopped whispering about me, maybe they think he's got a chance. Or maybe they just don't care about him as much as they cared about me, or at least, how tragic I look, you know?

He's got dark hair and his skin is tanned - maybe tanned, maybe just that color, I don't know – but it's a dark brown, the color of a walnut shell or a tawny calf. He's not ugly, really, but there's something weird about his face – eyes a little too small, nose not exactly in the right place, lips … mean. Not scared.

I'm starting to get more ahold of myself, just because I can't fuel the crying anymore – I didn't have a real breakfast, even, just an egg. Times are hard, but God will provide.

Oh, I think – maybe this is how He's providing.

And I'm crying again. God doesn't love me as much as He loves my brothers. Either of them could have gone! Colin must have prayed for this. Stupid mean Colin, always telling me to stay out of his stuff and not talk to his friends and telling mama and papa I'm too quiet and I'm probably slow even though my grades are better than his _ever_ were, he's just jealous, that's a _sin_ …

I'm almost angry enough to have cleared up the tears. I sniff into the sleeve of my dress, try to wipe my eyes, probably schmear the paint even more and look like I'm dead already. I can see a bit better, though. I can see the face of the boy, Samil? Samil. Next to me. And he's looking at me, and he looks _disgusted_.

That's where the shape of his mouth is from, I realize, he thinks I'm gross. And I want to say I don't agree, but I'm oozing snot into my mouth and tears from my eyes and suddenly I'm flushed red and crying again because he _hates_ me. He's right. I'm doubting God's plan, I deserve it, maybe? Maybe He knew I would be like this, knew how weak I am. Of course He would know. He knows everything. They teach us that.

We're being congratulated, cheered in a sad and halfhearted way, the bleats of useless sheep-people who will talk at length about what happened but never do a thing about it, useless! They just watch.

The ceremony is wrapping up, and both Samil and I are being ushered down the stairs, though he only needs a brief indication of where to go before striding ahead of the Peacekeepers and the escort – _pride_ , I think, that's pride, that's bad, but I'm still stumbling after him all the same, gripping the stair rail and then the arm of a Peacekeeper who seems concerned about the pace I'm setting on the way to the building that used to be the justice building.

It's very fine on the inside, not too fine, but plush around the edges, with marble walls and ceiling and a carpet that they regularly replace, or maybe just clean. It smells cleaner than the rest of the district, like there are no animals in here beyond the people that work in the nice offices and the Capitol dignitaries who sometimes take up office here as well. The air isn't heavy with perfume or anything, but it's weirdly sweet in a way that makes me wrinkle my nose through all the snot and tears. I don't mind the animal smells too much. This is just weird.

The only time I've ever been into this building before was to submit my tesserae along with Micah and Colin a couple months back. I didn't like it then either. Stuffy with the number of other younger eligible citizens. I don't remember seeing Samil then, but there were a huge number of people, thronging like cattle in the pen outside the slaughterhouse. It's much emptier now, and I guess I'll be seeing Micah and Colin again, soon, along with the rest of my family.

I wonder what they'll say to me? I wonder what they'll really be thinking. Glad it's me and not Colin, who actually brings something to the family, brings in money rather than eating it away. Glad it's not Micah, who can be a little simple, but always has a smile for our parents and takes better care of Ashley and Toby than I do when I'm supposed to.

God provides, God is providing for my family through this, it's in keeping with His plan, I tell myself, as if that will dry my eyes. This is right, this is right, this is how it's supposed to be.

The Peacekeepers lead Samil to one room and me through a different door, much taller than any door that would fit in my house, probably taller than the room me and Ashley and Toby share is wide or long. I wonder if my parents will already be there – it doesn't seem likely they could cut through the crowds in the square more efficiently than I can with my armed guards all in white, like masked angels, ushering me quickly through the most straightforward routes.

I'm abruptly alone in the room – it's weird, I'm almost never completely alone, the house is always packed, school is full of noise and movement and people, when I assist at the ranches I'm always in open air.

This lonely room is foreign and uncomfortable. The Peacekeepers have shut me in and given me privacy, which I barely even recognize. I guess I will have to get used to being alone. Samil doesn't seem like he's going to be the sort of touchy-feely ally to invite a scared twelve year old to share his room. I'm not sure I'd take him up on the offer if he did.

There's really something about him that makes my scalp prickle with unease. He's got dark eyes that should be dull, but somehow aren't, probe too far and in the wrong places.

Most men don't make me uncomfortable – I'm too young for them to look at funny or call out to in the streets, on account of being and looking so small and young. But there are streets my mama always hustles through, telling me to look down and move fast, and men call out to her or whistle and she clenches my arm even tighter – that clench, the way she stiffens beneath their gaze and their noises, that's how his eyes make my stomach feel. Like my mama is clenching her hand around it in warning.

The door opens – it seems like my family was herded together on the way in, because the veil of privacy rips all at once and my dad and mama and brothers and sister all tumble in at once, mama in the lead, cupping my face and crushing me to her body, crying even harder than I've been crying since I left the stage. Dad is more stoic, his hand on mama's back, Toby and Ashley hanging nervously by his legs, not sure exactly what is going on and what their reaction ought to be. Colin keeps his distance, wringing his hands as Micah stifles what look like tears of his own.

"Baby, baby," mama keeps whispering. "Oh Lord, my baby, my baby."

For some reason her touch and her words aren't making me cry harder or nothing, just seem to be running off my back like water from a duck. I can't feel anymore. My body just can't take anymore feeling right now. I let her hold me and shake, and I think, she must know there's nothing she can do. They all know there's nothing they can do. They should just settle down.

I know that's not fair to ask of them, but I wish mama would stop squeezing me so tight, I can't breathe.

"I love you," I tell her, knowing it's what she wants to hear, and also knowing that it's not the first layer of emotion I'm feeling right now. "I'll be okay, okay?"

Colin stifles a snort, not very effectively. My parents ignore it. Micah looks horrified.

"It's His plan," I say, feeling very mature for someone whose face is schmeared with paint and tears and snot. Not crying anymore, though.

Mama busts out crying all over again. "It's not fair, it's not fair, Charlotte, they can't do this, they can't…"

"Maryanne," my dad says softly. "She's right. We can mourn His plan, but we have to accept it."

"Yeah mama, it'll be okay."

She releases me, seeming almost embarrassed, wiping the tears from her eyes with the edge of her shawl. "Let me see your face, sweetheart," she says, attempting to clean the stains under my eyes in the same manner.

I endure the rough material, feeling more and more numb as the evidence of my tears is scrubbed away. I hear my dad's words – we have to accept it. We have to accept it. I have to accept it.

Maybe I never had such big plans for my life as some of my family, but I had plans, I really did – I was going to have a family of my own, a husband, raise my children, run my household, follow what I thought was supposed to be the plan. And it seems like a small dream, and maybe it was, but I wanted to live my life righteously, not just die righteously.

And now that's all I can hope for, to die with grace and in a way that tells Him that I understand and accept His decision, that I can wish all I want that He had a different plan for me, but this is it, this is it, I die and tomorrow Colin will have an extra egg for breakfast because I'm gone.

It's not fair, but it's my lot. It's not fair, and I know the tears will hit me again before too long, this island of numbness and clarity can't last for long. It's not fair, it's not fair, I'm twelve and I work so hard to do what I'm told and do right and be right and good – it's not fair.

But it's happening. It's not fair that the calf has to be slaughtered for veal, but the slaughter has to come. It's not fair, but it happens.

I just wish to God that it didn't have to happen to _me_.

x

 _I scrambled up which district was which in the process of powering through D9 and D10 and was agonizing about how to amend the cultural references without changing the characters when I hit upon a brilliant solution: switch the districts. Anyway, these chapters have been a long time coming, but thankfully I got that sorted out before I started trying to find ways to translate sheep metaphors to … grain metaphors._

 _I get the vibe that some people are still reading this, so I'm gonna keep at it - hopefully these later districts are not being as difficult for y'all to read through as they can be for me to write!_


	21. Samil, District 10

_Warnings for language, misogyny, and some general bs. Nothing too bad, but be aware._

x

Peacemaker

Samil Golding

x

Just after 8:46 AM, I wondered awhile

what would happen next. At 9:03 AM, I knew

there was going to be trouble for a while to come.

When in her grief the woman said, "We're going

to hurt them bad," she meant to say, "We're going

to hurt them badly."

'Usage', Hayan Charara

x

My visit with my parents was not especially eventful. I'm their youngest son – of course, it's a tragedy to see me sent away to the Hunger Games. But I'm the youngest of four, and not the favorite, so the tears feel hollow, like most of the affection has. As most things have, for most of my life.

Too honest? Maybe. But I'm not crying over anything I'm leaving behind in this gutter hole of a district, in my gutter hole of a family. Wealthy enough, insistent about upholding appearances even as their actual wealth went down the drain in the aftermath of the Mockingjay Rebellion, my parents especially are just cardboard people. Most people could be exchanged with cardboard cutouts and the facsimiles would do a better job, be worth more than the humans.

The girl – my district partner – is as delicate as a baby bird. She's one of the useless ones, you can tell just from looking at her. Women, in particular, tend to be useless. Too dumb to talk to, and this one too young to fuck.

I'm seventeen, and well into the age – I know my way around that, by now. I know what women are good for, and let me tell you, it's a very limited range of activities. A few like to get too big for their britches and try to act like men, and they get what's coming to them. Look at my mom, walking around with fake jewels, spending money she doesn't have on clothes that don't do anything for her since she's already past the age of ornamental usefulness. Acting like she had any role in earning the money my family used to have. Acting like she's worth the effort it takes to keep her alive.

That sounds dark, right? But it's true. Some social orders are the way they are because they work, and when people try to challenge the way things are, they deserve what they get. I'm not saying the Capitol was in the right, exactly, with the Mockingjay Rebellion – there were some people on the side of the districts who were in the right, of course, who weren't getting what they had been promised. But the idealism of the whole thing – the rebels who wanted a whole new social order – that was just stupid. Just people who didn't want to work for anything, who saw others who worked harder than them and thought they deserved what those people had.

Maybe this will be the best thing that ever happened to me, getting reaped. I'm not one to complain about situations beyond my control, but I am one to do whatever the fuck it takes to make the best of what I'm given. It's like, with women – you could sit around and whine about women not wanting to get with you because they're shallow bitches, or you could do something about your own self. Recognize that the situation sucks and work out until you've got the looks you need to make the best of things.

It's no use trying to change anything but yourself. If more people got that, we wouldn't need any rebellion bullshit – but people are stupid, and most people are too stupid to fix their own bullshit. And then they just complain and expect someone else, someone like me who has his shit in order, to come and fix their lives.

But like, I didn't spend so much time getting mine to help someone else who's too stupid to do what I did get theirs.

Hope my district partner picks up on that, or it won't end well for her.

I've been sitting alone in the fancy waiting room for a while when the Peacekeepers return to escort me to the train. It's always amazed me, people who resent the Peacekeepers – I actually just submitted my application to join training for the position a few weeks back, was set to take the physical in a few days.

This might just work out even better – though no doubt I would have passed with flying colors. I thought that sort of job was the best way to capitalize on being the kind of person who can string a sentence together and throw a hell of a punch. But 'victor' has a nice ring to it, right?

What I don't like about the Peacekeepers is their insistence on a kind of fake egalitarianism – I have no problem with like, the idea of women in the position, but they've been pushing so hard for gender parity, and you _know_ that comes at the expense of quality. You can't really tell what gender they are in the body armor and the masks, but that doesn't mean there's not a difference.

"Where to?" I ask the Peacekeepers who are walking with me, conversationally.

"The train's already in the station," one of them responds. "We'll get you onboard once we can."

He – it's a he – has sort of an apologetic tinge to his voice. Probably a district recruit.

"Cool," I say.

'Startled' wouldn't be the right word for their response, but 'taken aback' perhaps – both of them must have expected me to look – oh, a little more like the girl, who they're bringing out now.

She looks a right mess, her cheeks smeared with brown paint that used to be on her eyes – she's clearly tried to wipe it off, but done it so ineptly that she might as well not have tried. There's snot all down her front and on her sleeves from sobbing. Typical. She knows what's coming. I can't blame her for that, but I can acknowledge that it's pretty pathetic.

But that's just the way it is, right? If it's gonna be random and they're gonna give a fair shake to everybody, even girls like her have to end up in the running sometimes.

All you can hope is that someone kills her quick, or has some fun with it, to make her being there even worth it.

"There will be dinner served on the train at seven, if you want," one of the Peacekeepers flanking the shivering girl says gently.

This one's a woman, of course, and of _course_ she's swayed by the waterworks on display. It's just how they are.

"You can get some dry clothes on in your rooms," the woman Peacekeeper adds. "They'll have lots of beautiful dresses, if you want."

The girl nods, sniffling again.

"Thanks," she says tremulously.

Give me a fucking break.

I am kind of excited about the clothes situation – and _oh_ , the food situation – but can you blame me? Finally, the sort of quality of life I've been working towards. If anything, getting reaped was the biggest lucky break of my life. I love to compete – which is probably the only context in which I can unironically use the word 'love', because there's definitely none of that lost between me and my family. And I enjoy the finer things in life. _Really_ , who would blame me?

And I'm definitely putting in enough effort not to straight up roll my eyes at my mess of a district partner to have richly earned a good meal and a nice shower.

"Your mentor will meet you on the train," the first Peacekeeper tells us both, and I nod.

The mentor for District 10 is kind of a weird guy – in one of the first years after the Mockingjay Rebellion, before District 4 really picked up steam again, Timothy Shrivner, not the most intimidating name, picked up a late-district win. I was really young back then, but I still remember how everyone lost their shit as he made his way first through the bloodbath, then through the bulk of the Games as a loner, and finally took out two Careers after infighting left only the pair from District 1 in the running.

He was strong from working as a ranch hand, lucky enough to be in the older range, and the arena that year was the first of the 'normal' ones. For a while, Gamemakers had been pushing boundaries with bizarre arenas modeled after things like shopping centers and artificial cave systems. Then, a regime change led to things abruptly returning to much more normal settings – which threw the trainees for a loop, for a year or two.

Timothy was just a strong, competent guy who happened to be in the right place at the right time. There's something powerful about that. That's what I aim to be. Career alliances are fractious by nature – you've got too many factors, district allegiance, all the women stuck in one place, it's a situation ripe for catastrophe but they just haven't come up with anything better. I'm not scared of those assholes anyway. If there's one thing I hate, it's people who think they're better than me before they know me.

I don't know how much I can learn from Timothy – it's not like he exactly had a strategy in the Games, just did his own thing. I'm not sure if I'm going to be the loner guy like he was – depends on who seems legit, who I can sell on my vision, who isn't just a little whiny dumbass like my district partner, here.

We get ushered on the train – not a moment too soon. I'm getting antsy just being around someone so clearly about to edge back into hysteria as the girl I'm stuck with. One of the Peacekeepers calls her 'Charlotte'. Ugh.

I'm grateful when I'm suddenly alone in a room that's as big as the master bedroom of my parents' house – it bothers me a bit that I don't immediately feel at ease with the size and the fineness of it. This is mine, this is what I've worked for, after all. It's exactly what I deserve. I give myself a few seconds to take it in before stripping down for what's gotta be the best shower of my life.

We get consistent hot water in my part of District 10, which, not to give too much credit to my parents, is one of the nicer areas. But the showers are nothing like this – I walk out feeling like I've powerwashed half the flesh off my body, but like, it feels good as hell. For clothes, I pick out a blue button-down and a pair of khaki trousers. Exactly the sort of thing someone just slightly better off than me might wear back home. Feels just about right.

I check the clock – I've got a solid hour to go before I'm due for dinner – and I decide to do a set of push-ups, just because. I do three sets of fifty, not trying to mess myself up too bad. I try to work in this sort of stuff wherever I can. It's not like it's hard, but it keeps me jacked enough to keep females interested. I'm strong, I can throw a punch, and pretty soon I'm going to get a crash course in weapons. I'm feeling pretty good about my odds.

Still thinking, I flop down on the bed – and wow, it's a good deal nicer than the digs I'm used to, that's for sure. I didn't think beds could be this soft, though I guess I'm not really paying attention to quality so much when I'm trying unfamiliar mattresses out, if you get what I'm saying.

I could get used to this. Ain the next week, though, I hope I won't have time to. This sort of living could make a guy soft if he wasn't too careful.

Hopefully that hasn't happened to Timothy – he seems like a decent enough guy with his priorities in the right place, or he did in what I've seen of his coverage as a victor. Spending the next week with him could be miserable or it could be almost fun, depending on how quality he is as a mentor. If he's gotten too used to the cushy life, though, and the fucked up Capitol values, then it's not gonna be a good time.

Either way, I'll deal just fine. I got what it takes to work with whatever this week throws at me. I've been going to the classes they offer for Peacekeeper hopefuls for the last few months, I know more shit than the average guy off the streets. And I think for myself, not like the Career tributes and their 'for the district' bullshit.

I got my priorities straight, and that's the important thing. I don't have a thing to worry about in the arena. The Capitol's the one that isn't ready for _me_.

x

 _I'm getting there, y'all. One more district to go - 12 is still ashes and 13 is long gone in this canon._


	22. Dasheen, District 11

The Edible Tuber of the Taro Plant

Dasheen Lindsay

x

If this is peace, this dead and leaden thing,

Then better far the hateful fret, the sting.

Better the wound forever seeking balm

Than this gray calm!

'Dead Fires', Jessie Redmon Fauset

x

When I first got to my room on the train, I must have cried for half an hour. I had to, after powering through the shock of the reaping and the gut-wrenching pain of saying goodbye to my parents, my sister Ginger, my friends… it was just shock, non-stop shock and a few bad jokes on my part that would have made my mom cuff me if she hadn't been inches from sobbing herself.

My mom has always told me that my flippancy will be what does me in, but in the process of saying goodbye, a few shitty one liners were all that kept Ginger smiling through her tears – seeing me, her little sister, about to leave her forever, but still in fine form.

Until I made it to my room, of course. My pillow – god, this beautiful soft pillow – is soaked with snot and tears.

My family is among the better off in the district, but my pillows aren't near this nice. Since the Mockingjay Rebellion, things have changed a lot in District 11. Reparations have been big in the later districts, and nowhere bigger than Panem's breadbasket. Where we used to be little more than dirt under the Capitol's heel, we've been slowly getting used to being something more like a favored child.

Food is important, after all. Everybody's gotta eat. And District 11 has always been the powerhouse behind keeping the districts – and the Capitol – fed.

It makes sense that they'd want to win back our loyalty. Things were bad for a few years after the Rebellion – bad everywhere, but especially in 11, where we'd burned whatever fields the Capitol's forces didn't firebomb and abruptly had to start again from nothing. But President Lancaster's agriculture reinvestment program, which targeted District 9 in part, but mostly 11, kept us all from the brink of starvation in anticipation of our cooperation in rebuilding from the ashes of the failed rebellion.

And rebuild we did! In contrast to most other districts, our infant mortality dropped sharply in the years after the Rebellion. Our quality of life skyrocketed. Wages rose. Capitol Peacekeepers disappeared from our streets, replaced with recruits born and raised in District 11.

As our orchards became fruitful again, the quality of the produce that we got to keep looked nothing like the meager offerings from before. Even field laborers could suddenly afford houses, though not quite so nice as those owned by the burgeoning middle class. They told us things would get better, that we could trust the new government – and they followed through. Gotta hand it to the Capitol bigwigs. Most of them look like a bunch of flamingos, but they've done right by us, in the end.

My mom has a fine portrait of President Lancaster hung right next to our front door. Most people do. Not because she's much to look at, but for what she represents to most of the district, especially the folks who lived through the Rebellion and the times before.

To me and Ginger – her twenty, me eighteen, both too young to remember much of the Rebellion but the terror of it all – she's like our aunt, the way mom talks about her as though they've got a close personal friendship and it was President Lancaster who personally co-signed the lease on our house. I figure she's just one of a better class of politician. The stories you hear about the guys who came before her – poisoners, murderers, backstabbers – well, it all sounds larger than life, kind of unbelievable that things went by without a rebellion for so many decades. My dad has scars on his back from being whipped. I can't even imagine what that was like.

All that's left of that time is the Hunger Games, and well, we need those – Lancaster says we need them, so it might as well be written in the bible. And District 11 has had two victors since the Mockingjay Rebellion, better even than District 4 – they're practically a point of pride here, though not something most people would be willing to volunteer for.

We do get volunteers, though.

I just didn't get lucky today, and like, story of my damn life. Eighteen, just about to break free of the last relic of the bad times, the Games, and here I am, on a train to my death.

Maybe I should cry some more. Get it out of my system. But I feel too dehydrated to keep going – just raw, in my face, in my lungs, all over.

It doesn't feel like a betrayal, but it doesn't feel fair, either. My parents are good law-abiding citizens – my dad oversees the construction and development of new territory for orchards, my mom works at the old Justice Building as a notary. They have good jobs, make good money, put good food on the table, have enough left over to send Ginger to the fanciest secondary school in the district – she's on track to become even more of a somebody than my parents.

She was also always better than me, but after a childhood too fraught with the aftermath of the Rebellion and the cleanup effort to be too conducive to sibling rivalry, I've come to terms with the fact that she's prettier and probably smarter – whereas the only thing smart about me, my mom complains, is my damn mouth.

I can work with that, though – I had friends, I was funny, I loved my sister and cheered for her as she succeeded, knowing full well it probably wouldn't be my path.

Didn't exactly expect _this_ path, of course. But hey, my time to shine?

My time to sob like thirteen year old whose boyfriend held hands with another girl on the schoolyard.

My time to make stupid analogies that minimize the truth of my going to my death.

It's not all bad. I'll get to rub elbows with District 11's biggest heroes before I bite the big one, and I've always enjoyed the spotlight. I'm not sure how I'm going to play this, but the gears in my brain are turning just as sure as my tear ducts are getting the workout of their lives. As the second child, I've always been good at making the most of what I'm given – my sister's hand-me-downs (too tight, because I'm not a delicate wood nymph like she is), what little praise I can get from my parents when my grades are not … impressive ….

Younger children make do, and I'm like, a professional-grade younger child. Top tier, first draft. I can ham like nobody's business and make a stupid joke out of anything.

It's hard, right now – yeah, that pit of fear and frustration and grief is definitely making it hard to fire on all cylinders. But I've got, like, a week to figure this out. The trip in to the Capitol and the training and the interviews – those will be something, I'll make sure of it – and then. Well. What happens next. The Games.

I may be something of an optimist, but even I know my odds are low. I'm tall, yeah, but soft. No laborer. I have a part-time job after school cleaning up after the vendors in the day market, but sweeping doesn't exactly build the kind of muscle mass it takes to swing through trees or swing a sword or swing more than a halfhearted right hook.

So I don't think about that, for a moment. Denial can be fun.

There's a knock at my door – it must be almost seven. A soft voice, on the masculine side, not too familiar – "Dasheen? The escort says it's time for dinner."

That'll be my district partner, then. Statice Lawson. Seems like a nice enough guy, not that 'nice' gives him anything more than a caterpillar's chance in a tracker jacker nest in the coming days. Salt of the earth middle class, parents are probably laborers but he hasn't gone that path.

I don't think he goes to my school, but I've heard his name before – mentioned in the same way Ginger's was, for exemplary academic achievement. My mom loves to gossip about the exemplary students of District 11 – in no small part because she raised one of them, and wants to light a fire under my ass to bring the number up to two – so I hear more than the average person about who's scored well on math exams and who's been accepted to what accelerated track.

Fat lot of good any of that will do him. But maybe he'll be pleasant company. I could use a friend right about now. Not thinking any more than a day ahead, I just can't imagine spending the next few days in silent contemplation.

I don't do well alone with my thoughts. Hence the sopping pillow I've been crying into for half an hour.

"On my way!" I shout, not sure how loud I have to be to be heard through the doors of the train.

I changed into a nice lilac tunic and a pair of grey leggings before I hurled myself down on the bed and started bawling, so at least I'm not in my reaping clothes, which would make it impossible to look at myself in the mirror on the way out. At least I look like I've tried, somewhat, to put myself together.

I got my hair done up in protective braids specifically for the reaping, so I don't look bad by any means. Like I've been crying for thirty minutes? Yeah. Bad? No. No worse than I ever look. Plain, but not ugly. I can deal with plain.

Funny and plain gets you places, right? Here I am, on a train, going to a place other than my district – I'd say it worked out. Ha ha. I'm off my game.

When I open the door, after fumbling with the mechanism for second, Statice is still there, waiting for me. He's got a forgettable face, not the sort you'd pick out easily from a crowd. Curly hair, skin on the lighter end of the spectrum but still clearly District 11. He hasn't changed since the reaping. His glasses do a poor job of disguising how red his eyes are.

He's been crying too, and that makes me feel a little better.

Neither of us got volunteered for. And that's rough. A bad year. Bad luck. We can commiserate.

"Why'd you wait for me?" I ask.

"I don't want to sit with Sharon and Cereus alone," he says. "I'd be less freaked out about sitting down to dinner with the President."

He sniffs a bit, and shakes his head, as though he can get rid of the puffiness around his eyes that way.

"Oh shit, yeah, I get it," I say. "Yeah. What are we supposed to say to them? 'Sorry you ended up with us, better luck next year'?"

"Cereus was like, my idol as a kid," he sighs.

Cereus Gardner was the first outer-district victor of the post-Rebellion Games. A powerfully-built eighteen year old fieldworker who bravely volunteered for some little kid – not even related to him, just said it was 'the right thing to do'. He was soft-spoken, but quickly became a Capitol darling as it became clear that he didn't have a single bad word to say about them. He wouldn't hear a word about the Rebellion, but talked about participating in the rebuilding of District 11 like he was talking about being Noah building the damn Ark, that's how proud he was of the whole thing.

And then, of course, he scored well, struck off on his own, survived handily off a knowledge of plants even in the bizarre shopping mall arena, setting up shop in the flower nursery of a home goods store and picking off anyone who came within range of a shovel that he wielded like he'd been carrying it all his life.

Even I remember watching his final showdown with a District 4 girl whose open disrespect of Cereus since an incident in training had made her a villain to the whole district. Three light javelins she'd made from splintered broom handles in him like a pincushion, he ripped one out and put it straight through her heart.

He's been the darling of the Capitol and the District ever since – came home and went right back to working in the fields. People would cut throats for the chance to serve on his crew. A hero to the common man and the Capitolite alike.

No wonder Statice is nervous. Just thinking about meeting him in person – sharing a meal with him – I'm nervous too.

I can hear my mother's voice in my head, 'don't embarrass us!' and I almost roll my eyes.

"He's everybody's idol," I say aloud. "But like, no one looks that good eating spaghetti, right? We're all one messy pasta dish away from being the same person."

Statice laughs, looking surprised at himself for the noise.

"C'mon," I say, with more bravado than I genuinely feel, "let's see what Mr. Famous looks like with red sauce down his front. We can worry about disappointing him later."

"Yeah," Statice says. "Thanks. You're right."

"Don't get too comfortable, I have a lot of questions for you. I know your name from somewhere. Where?"

We start to make our way down the corridor from the living quarters to the dining room. Statice sighs.

"Language and biology exams – I scored top in both."

I whistle, low and soft. "Damn, so you ready to linguistics us out of this mess?"

"Ready to make a very well-accoladed corpse."

Now it's my turn to laugh. "You don't seem too bad. Glad you're not a tight-ass."

"What a compliment."

"Hey, that's as nice as I get. You should be grateful I'm not dragging you right off the bat, I'm kind of off my game what with all the violent sobbing and existential terror."

"Yeah," he says, and we go quiet again. Too soon, I guess.

We've reached the dining car, and we both pause nervously at the door.

"You ready to meet your heroes?" I ask him.

"Ready as I'll ever be," he says, standing aside as I open the shiny silver door.

The dining table is set too grandly to look away – fruits I've only read about in books, massive cuts of meat, bowls of steaming sauces and trays of tiny shells stuffed with bright-colored substances I don't recognize.

Without really meaning to, I whistle again, impressed against my will – like, hell, I work at the market, but this spread is something else – and realize we are not alone.

Cereus sits at one end of the table, tall and broad and composed as a statue carved from ebony. Beside him, Sharon, a more recent victor, sits straight-backed in a chair that is surely comfortable enough for her to relax, like, a _little_. She's beautiful herself, in the lighter-skin looser-curls way. In person, her huge brown eyes are captivating. She wasn't a volunteer like Cereus, but she was a laborer too, got herself picked up by the Career alliance for her sponsor appeal and her high training score and made short work of them once they started to fracture.

Career alliances rarely accept district tributes these days, and most sources attribute that to the goings-on of the year she won.

On the other side, we have our comparatively unimpressive escort, Bona, a tall and dark-skinned woman with few alterations beyond hair that seems to grow out of her scalp made of pure gold. She just doesn't have the mentors' presence. Her Capitol affect seems flimsy and fake in comparison to their stoicism.

"Statice, Dasheen," Cereus begins, his voice a low rumble. "Congratulations and apologies are both due."

"You're telling me," I say, nerves making my mouth move quicker than my brain. Shit.

He exchanges looks with Sharon, then laughs.

"Okay. I know what you're feeling right now. I just want you to know, we're going to do everything we can to keep the two of you alive. We can only help you as much as you let us, but I consider myself a very good mentor – Sharon can attest."

"I can," she says, gesturing at herself and smiling – I think sincerely. "See? Alive."

"It's not going to be easy, and I'm clearly not in a position to be making promises, but I don't want to see you crying in frustration. You're District 11. You may not feel strong right now, but you are. Sit down and have some food. We'll talk more once you're settled. Okay?"

I nod wordlessly. Statice seems overwhelmed. I nudge him, helpfully, towards a seat.

"Oh my god," he says quietly.

"Sit down, dumbass," I murmur. "They'll think you're stupid."

"There's no worry about that," Cereus says. "I've met a lot of tributes. First impressions are graded on a curve."

Sharon laughs – Statice and I join in nervously.

As I dig in to the food, I feel … bizarre, at the intersection between rational grief and irrational hope. I know I don't have a chance, but I didn't realize how badly I wanted to believe I did until Cereus looked me in the eyes and told me he would help me.

It's not going to be okay, I'm not going to kid myself. Statice and I are nothing like the man and woman sitting before us who survived the ordeal that's about to end both of our lives. I serve myself some spaghetti noodles in red sauce and somehow immediately stain my lilac tunic.

Looking up, I see that Cereus has served himself from the same dish.

His crisp white button-down shirt is immaculate.

It's going to be a long week.

x

 _Y'all may have noticed that as I get bored with a time period I move to another time period. As we get closer to the actual meat of things (ONE! MORE! FUCKING! INTRODUCTION!) I will continue to stick with things that are interesting to write and, hopefully, to read._

 _I'm so goddamn excited to write about people actually talking to each other and interacting and shit. Holy shit. I have been working on this since the SUMMER OF 2015. FUCK ME UP!_


	23. Statice, District 11

_Note: this chapter is LONG because it also includes sort of a recap of. The last two years. Worth of tributes. Like eighty thousand words worth of info somewhat recapped. I'm DONE!_

Causing to Stand Still

Statice Lawson

x

And love, you say,

is a constant blade, a trowel that plants

and uproots, and tomorrow

will be a tornado, you say. Then war,

a sick wind, will come to part the air,

straighten your suit,

and place fresh flowers

on all our muddy graves.

'A Brief History of Hostility', Jamaal May

x

This has got to be the worst – no, the strangest day of my life. And also the worst, but the 'strange' is eclipsing that right now. Like, three hours ago I was on track to be scouted by the best agriculture labs in the district, to land a job so good my parents would never have to work again. One year left in school, one reaping left to escape unscathed, and then…

'Scathed'. I guess that's as succinctly as I can put it. I got my ass scathed.

And now I'm eating dinner with my childhood hero, Cereus, the most eligible bachelorette in the district, Sharon, the strange-haired escort, Bona, and my district partner, who I barely know but who has so far been … more pleasant than I expected.

When she got called, Dasheen looked practically haughty onstage – up close, it seems that's just her default face. She's always thinking – you can practically see the wheels turning behind her eyes. Not in the uptight academic way, in the ready-to-rip-you-a-new-asshole-if-you-give-her-half-a-chance sort of way. She's sharp-edged, but has been kind to me, ish. Her presence isn't upsetting. She's covered in tomato sauce from messily eating two large plates of pasta.

"I worked up an appetite sobbing my eyes out," she insists through a forkful of food.

Her self-deprecating sense of humor, while unexpected from my first impression of her, has been the main element of this dinner – this day – keeping me from cracking.

First impressions can be deceiving, I guess. I should know that by now. Dasheen looks, at first glance, like the sort of girl who I could expect to treat me like dirt until she figured out where I ranked academically. Like, she's really pretty, in the strong-jaw bright-eyes way – the sort of pretty that doesn't need makeup. And she's almost half a head taller than me which, well, can you say 'intimidating'? And she carries herself like royalty, if royalty had exceptionally poor posture and was, as mentioned before, liberally dotted in spots of tomato sauce.

It's not like I have a crush, I just think she's interesting, and it's nice to have a distraction from the whole 'dying' thing, which keeps hitting me in waves. A wave of fear and grief, then a wave of curiosity about something Dasheen just said, then a wave of nervousness at being _three feet away from Cereus Gardner_ , for christ's sake.

What a fucking day. What a god damn mother fucking day. The intensity of it all is making it impossible to process – am I forgetting my family? My mom and dad, left alone with my two little brothers – they pinned so much on me, I owe it to them to be thinking of them, I can't be getting distracted. Or do I owe it to myself to try not to think of that? To try to enjoy the food and the trip, as seems to be Dasheen's strategy for not breaking down into a puddle of tears?

I just don't know. I'm so used to knowing things, to things making sense if I just spend enough time reading about them, thinking about them, parsing them out. I hate not knowing, I hate not understanding.

I wish to god I was anywhere else but here, but the rational part of my brain accepts there's no point in wishing like that, but I just don't know what to do with this shitty emotional center that I can't control, and it _sucks_!

It just sucks.

"You're awfully quiet," Dasheen comments, apparently having paused to take a few sips of water and delicately dab at one of the many spots of sauce on her face with a napkin. "Have I transfixed you with my charm yet?"

She doesn't seem nearly as rattled as she did when I went to get her in her room. Maybe it's the food. Maybe I should be eating more. It seems to be helping her.

Cereus seems taken slightly aback by the both of us – only a little, not in a bad way, just … taken aback. I don't think he was expecting Dasheen to start pretending everything is normal so quickly, or me so slowly. I wonder how much he knows about me. I bet he's already figured both of us out. He is _so cool_.

"Oh," I say abruptly, realizing Dasheen is still looking at me for a response. "Sorry, I'm like… processing."

A see a flash of sympathy across her face, but she stifles it quickly.

"Take your time, man, more food for me."

"Am I going to have to roll you into the chariot?" I ask, feeling a surge of myself-ness, trying to engage with the normalcy she seems to have adopted.

"I expect nothing less of you. That's the trick I'm going to show the Gamemakers, jot that down. The first ever perfectly round tribute. No one will know what to make of me."

Both Cereus and Sharon are looking back and forth between the two of us, not quite perplexed, but not quite comprehending, either.

"The two of you have a great rapport," Cereus comments. "That's good. We can work with that."

"Before we go anywhere with that, I gotta ask," Dasheen says, finally just unfolding her napkin and completely cleaning off her face. It's easier to take her seriously when she's slightly less orange with tomato sauce.

"Ask away," Cereus says, displaying his palms and smiling.

"You really think we have a clementine's chance in a classroom full of kindergarteners?"

She's eyeing him skeptically – her tone is joking, but she's very serious, feeling him out.

"Honestly?"

"Honestly."

"Your odds are bad, but they're not zero, and I think I can help you both out. You're clearly smart kids. You're not too young to learn. Upsets happen all the time. And Sharon and I are a good team of mentors. I think either of you has a shot."

Her eyes narrow for a long moment. The table is completely still. Bona, the escort, has barely said a word all through dinner.

"Okay. I trust you," she says simply. "And not just because you're Mr. Famous Cereus. I think you're being honest with us."

"I apologized when you walked in here because I can't get both of you out alive, not because you're both goners," he replies placidly.

There's something very calming about his voice and affect. Less a dad than an older brother who's been around the block and knows what's what. I see what Dasheen trusts in him, and I think I can trust it too.

I'm still being realistic, though, in that… I'm not here getting my head full of daydreams of Victor's Village just yet.

But if someone is clearly here making every effort to make me feel better about things, it's just not sensible to refuse against my better judgement. My judgement says trust him. My rational understanding of the world says that outer district tributes do win – one from District 6, a few years back, not a laborer by any means, she was just … smart, and fast. I'm smart, at least.

A non-zero chance is something I can cling to. It's something I can use to deny my premature grief for my life. And I appreciate that Cereus has given me that much.

"How are you going to help us?" I ask. "Like, logistically."

"Good question," Sharon says warmly. "I can speak to that. Cereus has loads of contacts – not as many as they do in, say, District One, but enough."

At the mention of District 1, Dasheen _boos_ softly, then laughs at her own joke.

"Yeah," Sharon adds, "After my year, the Career alliance won't touch you. But that can be a good thing. When you're strong, you play weak. When you're weak, you play strong. Forgive my realistic assessment, but I think the two of you are gonna want to front as stronger than you are."

"No offense taken," Dasheen says, laughing. "I have to ask my boss for help lifting particularly heavy crates of fruit. I'm not snapping any necks."

I'm startled by her immediate familiar affect with all of us. I'm still hyperconscious of my posture, being so close to such famous people, even with them being so apparently kind to me.

"Any closet skills or strengths, though, seriously, now would be a good time," Cereus says, a little more sober to balance Dasheen's tone.

"I'm hilarious," Dasheen says immediately, entirely deadpan. She holds her silence for a solid beat, then cracks up.

"She can play intimidating," I say, trying to be helpful. "I thought she seemed like, confident when she got called. She could play that."

"Great idea," Sharon says warmly.

I'm thankful my complexion makes it difficult to see me blush.

"As for you," Cereus says, turning to me, "there's an angle you see a lot in Three, pushing the intelligence thing. If people don't know what you're capable of, and you give them enough tools to assume the worst, they will. So make them assume you know some secret way to make their lives miserable. Coming from District 11, you would know your plants – your poisons – your snares. Steer clear of those stations, but be deliberate about it. If Dasheen is willing to help you out – which isn't something you should assume – she can drop just enough information to make it clear you're to be avoided. It might help her case, too."

"What do you mean? What's my case? I'm not agreeing to help him yet," Dasheen says quickly.

"You have the height and the affect to seem like a reasonably formidable competitor," Cereus tells her. "That's a good start, but we have to get you at least a six in training to sell that."

"I have literally no skills," Dasheen insists. "Just being honest, here. Like, none."

"Then you're going to have to learn fast," Sharon responds, just as insistent. "This part isn't a joke. Scores are how they call your bluff. You can sell your height and your confidence and your being from District Eleven all you want. Cereus and I have given you something to sell – they'll look at you and they'll remember us. That's a start. But you need the score to back it up. A six is plenty. But you need to show them something that makes the Gamemakers think you're competent too. And then you have a shot at convincing the other tributes – even some sponsors. Got it?"

Dasheen grimaces, but she nods eventually. "Got it," she echoes with some reluctance.

"How about me?" I ask. "What do I need to score?"

"Doesn't matter so much. Your intimidation factor is the unknown quantity – you're a poisoner or a snaremaster or something. You probably wouldn't show the Gamemakers your hand. We can sell a three or a four. They'll think they're clever for figuring out you're hiding some dangerous skill, when the real bluff is that you're playing it straight."

"Okay," I say. "Makes sense."

"We'll have time to talk more about this throughout the train ride," Cereus explains. "I'm trusting both of you to support the other, at least with your secrecy. Okay? You don't have to bend over backwards for your partner, but this is District Eleven, and our strength is that we support each other. You seem like decent people. Don't prove me wrong. I don't like being wrong."

He crosses his arms, and I can see muscles ripple beneath his dark skin. Cereus still looks every inch the man who crushed a District 1 tribute's sternum with a single blow from the handle of his shovel. Maybe even more powerful now – he's aged into his frame remarkably.

It's hard not to feel inadequate, built like a six foot tall string bean as I am.

We run tall in District 11, especially now that we're not starving as we once were. That can be an asset compared to the other districts, but it's been painting an increasingly large target on our backs since Cereus and especially now with Sharon's gambit with the Careers.

Last year, one of our tributes was killed immediately during the bloodbath – the other was the first the Career pack decided to hunt, got injured badly on day one but managed to hang on nearly a week. She was only sixteen, one of the hundreds of orchard girls who are still highly in demand for their agile utility in treating pests as well as picking fruit. But she was strong, scored an enviable eight – and got picked off once they cornered her in a tree and burned her out.

If I were more involved in the Games culture – as a lot of the district is – I'd be swearing bloody revenge on District 2 for their role in having come up with that plan. District 2 was the scapegoat chosen by most of 11, and _oh_ how we cheered when their last tribute lost a fight with a mutt mountain lion.

"How about the other tributes?" Dasheen asks. "What are we up against?"

"Glad you asked," Cereus says. "Sharon, you got the video?"

"I leaned on one of the Gamemakers' new interns and got us their prep tape," Sharon says, with a conspiratorial wink. "Bona, can you put it up for us?"

"It's mostly a cut of the reapings, with some footage from tributes from the earlier districts who have already been on the trains for a while," Bona explains. "They'll give it to the escorts too, but not so quickly."

"Wait, so they're filming us? Right now?" Dasheen says, her voice rising in panic. "But we just said like, everything, the whole plan."

Cereus laughs. "The Gamemakers don't care that you're planning an angle, they expect it. They won't disseminate footage that would give an unfair advantage – trust me, I've tried. We can't get the raw stuff. Our best bet is the Gamemakers' cut, which is pre-scrubbed because they also expect us to try to steal it or wheedle it out of the escorts. Don't sweat, Dasheen. We know this game. We won this game."

She crosses her arms uncomfortably – I, too, suddenly am hyperaware that I am being watched. I cried so much in my room. Did they see that? Did they watch that? Is that what's making Dasheen nervous, now?

"The tape, please, Bona," Sharon repeats.

Bona waves a manicured hand, summoning a screen from a glassy black panel on the wall of the dining area. It abruptly comes to life, showing the District 1 square, as I've seen in many reapings before.

"I can narrate a bit," Cereus adds. "I've already seen it. You've got some interesting competition, and watching this will be a good start."

I nod, my mouth already feeling dry. This makes it real. I can't pretend it's not real. This is real.

The two tributes from District 1 are not the usual set.

"No blondes?" Dasheen asks, as the camera circles artistically around a tall man who looks like he could pick me up and snap me in half.

Must be well over six feet, so even taller than Dasheen. His skin is almost as dark as Cereus', but his hair is thick and straight, gelled perfectly into place. Not District 11 or District 3 – some ambiguous ethnic identity that doesn't exactly fit the District 1 norm.

"This is Manari Issa," Cereus explains. "Eighteen, the selected volunteer for this year. I don't need to tell you he's someone to watch out for."

He has thick brows, shaped almost like wings. He's scowling, just slightly, out at the crowd – this is the vibe I got from Dasheen, multiplied by twenty thousand. The intensity and intelligence of his dark eyes makes my skin crawl.

"Okay, so he's scary," Dasheen says. "Welcome to the trainee districts, right?"

"Yeah," Sharon sighs. "But it's easier on us when they stick to the normal kind. Now we gotta start figuring out what his deal is. Leave it to us."

The screen shifts to the woman who must be his partner, a similarly rapt camera taking in her much shorter stature.

"She's… what, five four?" I ask. "Tiny for District One."

"Less," Sharon notes. "Check out the heels."

Stockily built, the woman is no lithe archer. She has broad shoulder for her size, and is clearly muscular beneath her tanned skin. Her eyes are hazel – carefully painted bigger than they are. I think she's wearing false eyelashes, too? It's a lot. But the effect fits together well once the camera takes a wider angle, showing her beside her partner.

"Jewel Lasday," Cereus notes. "Eighteen, the other selected volunteer. She's small, but don't underestimate her."

"Wasn't planning on it," Dasheen snarks, looking only slightly apologetic as the words leave her mouth.

Cereus shrugs, clearly not bothered by Dasheen's mouthiness – good, I guess, that could work out poorly.

After a few shots of them stepping onto the train – in which I am struck by the panther-like grace of the man – we shift to District 2.

"Marcus Ota and Cora Davis," Cereus narrates as the camera swoops in on the two of them. "Both eighteen, both their Center's chosen volunteers, all as planned. Claudia – that's the head mentor from Two – has been selling them both hard."

"What does that mean?" I ask.

"I don't really know what to make of it – she's _excited_ about them. Claudia and I are about as close to friends as you can get within the mentors. I think it's genuine. This is a pair to watch out for."

The two don't exude the same kind of charisma I was registering from the pair from District 1 – the girl is on the taller side, has the lean but muscular build of a light weapons wielder. She's blonde and very white – her skin is the color of raw milk, and practically translucent. Her face is bare, and very classically beautiful, but with an unsettling sort of gauntness. Her eyes are nearly black, and seem hungry.

Her partner, meanwhile, on closer examination, is just as beautiful – in an odd way for District 2. He's build more like a swordsman, smaller than the man from District 1, but with a broad chest. Still at least as tall as me, if not moreso. His eyes are – the word I'd choose is almost 'gentle'. He smiles slightly, rests his hand on his partner's arm – she looks up at him, first in confusion, then in a sort of shared understanding. The hunger disappears from her eyes.

"Huh." Dasheen says. "Weird."

"Weird is right," Sharon echoes.

"It's District 2, weird is the name of the game," Cereus says calmly. "Deviations from the norm will be a bit confusing at first, but there's always something to be exploited, and we'll figure out how to make it work. Don't get too intimidated."

"Too late," I mutter, but the mentors don't hear me as the scene shifts to District 3. Dasheen makes note, though – I can see it in her eyes.

The pair from District 3 are almost as impressive as their trainee predecessors – a fierce-looking young woman with a shaved head, small but lithe, and a giant of a man whose demeanor reminds me almost of Cereus. He emanates a kind of calm, seems stressed at being reaped but not panicky. The girl just looks frustrated – angry, even. There are tears in her eyes, but not the blubbery sort.

"Dion Cayes and Bridget Harding," Cereus explains. "Eighteen and sixteen, both reaped rather than volunteered."

"They look tough," Dasheen observes.

"I don't doubt you're right," Cereus replies. "I wouldn't push reaching out to these two. District Three tends to look out for themselves first."

"So they got the same rep we do?" Dasheen asks.

"More or less."

"Hm."

As we watch them board the train, the two tributes are already locked in some kind of intense discussion.

"Can we expect them to ally?" I ask.

"Good thought," Sharon replies. "But don't make any calls yet. We just don't have enough information."

The pair from District 4 are formidable, particularly the woman – well over six feet tall, broad shouldered, with thick dark hair and coarse brown skin. Beside her, the man from District Four, who can't be any shorter than me, and is beefy enough to make me look twice, just doesn't have the same intimidation factor.

"Renata Ortiz and Angel Lozada," Cereus narrates. "District Four doesn't settle on tributes until the last second – both were in the top three of their respective gendered pools."

Renata, the woman, surveys the crowd with a disdain that reminds me of the District 1 tribute's scowl – but rather than being haughty or arrogant, it seems to be a look of sincere disgust at the assembled crowds.

She strikes me as one to watch out for.

At District 5, we start to hit tributes who I doubt will haunt my nightmares – Trace Posner and Doreen Massengale.

The boy – and he is a boy – is about my height, but just as reedy as I am. I notice, with some sad recognition, that he wears glasses too. His huge green eyes sparkle with helpless tears behind the lenses. Cereus says he is fifteen. His district partner, the young woman, is dark skinned and dark haired and so fragile that she looks like she might blow away in a strong wind. She's eighteen, but there's something uncomprehending about her eyes – she's crying too, screams for someone in the crowd, but her voice is lost on the tape.

"That's… sad," Sharon comments. "District Five doesn't have mentors. They'll be mostly on their own."

"Sad for them, good for you," Cereus adds, and Dasheen nods.

District 6 has at least one viable tribute – I shudder to hear myself use that kind of language, but I'm trying to think clinically, use what I know from watching previous Games with my friends and family. A stoic girl, Yuna Watanabe, who Cereus notes is eighteen. She's big for District 6, and her composure is underscored by flashes of understanding in her big dark eyes. District 6 has a reputation for being smart. She's got an angle waiting for her to grab it and do what she will.

Her partner, though, is barely a boy – the editing of the tape can't disguise the uproar as he is chosen. Something seems off about him, the way he walks, the way he takes in the world. Lucas Inoue, thirteen years old.

"Sad," Sharon repeats.

Cereus just nods.

We move on to District 7, where Fidan Said and Oliver Salcedo, fifteen and seventeen respectively, cut a solid figure. Fidan has the build of an orchard girl, waist-length dark hair left hanging around her slight form. She has a tough sort of look to her – one of the hungry district kids. Her partner, on the other hand, seems to have trouble standing up, his face – an exceptionally handsome face beneath a mass of dark, curly hair – smeared with blood from a fall on his way to the stage.

"He's hot," Dasheen comments.

"He's drunk," Sharon observes. "Messy."

Dasheen shrugs. "Doesn't mean he's not hot."

I almost laugh. What timing.

The pair from District 8, Jean Pollack and Damask Bhatti, are not especially imposing. They're young, fourteen and fifteen. The girl is slender and looks like she's been washed entirely of color as she makes her way onto the stage – seemingly in shock. The boy looks angry, hurt, frustrated – but he's small of stature, and seems bitterly cognizant of that.

"We're getting towards the end," I note.

"Saving the best for last," Sharon says, laughing.

As we reach District 9, I'm struck again by the youth of the male tribute – thirteen year old Andre Ocampo. His partner, eighteen year old Bian Mai, has the look of a laborer, but not the intensity of gaze that was obvious when Sharon and Cereus were chosen – she looks lost on stage, and while she is broad-shouldered and clearly tanned dark from hard work outdoors, there's no inner energy keeping her standing. She looks ready to crumple, searching the crowd for someone she can't seem to find.

The youth of her partner is sad, of course, but by now no one can bring themselves to comment on it.

At the District 10 tributes, my heart sinks as Cereus points out a twelve year old girl, Charlotte Reed, who is already sobbing by the time she reaches the stage. It sinks for a different reason as her district partner, seventeen year old, Samil Golding, gives the crying child a look of utter loathing that disappears from his face as he shifts to regard the crowd with eerie composure.

He doesn't have a laborer's build, quite, or dress – but he's bound with muscle. On the short side. I wonder what about his life necessitates he be built like that. Something about him draws my attention, but I can't figure out exactly what. His face, the structure of it at least, is relatively plain – but his eyes are like shards of wrought iron.

Dasheen shudders, and I don't think she meant to. "He gives me the creeps," she observes.

Sharon nods. "That boy's not right."

Probably the most succinct possible way to put it.

"Ready for your close up?" Cereus asks, as the scene finally shifts to District 11. It's a gut-wrenching transition, remembering the most jarring moment of my life.

There's Dasheen, looking proud and haughty, her strong jaw lifted just slightly enough to convey a vague distaste for the goings-on. Knowing her as I do now, I can see a glimmer of terror in her eyes – or maybe it's my imagination. She really is a good actress.

I hold my breath as my face comes onstage – my forehead knit together in concentration, I remember, forcing tears back from my eyes, just trying to stay standing. Dasheen regards me coolly, without recognition. I remember feeling her eyes on me in that moment, feeling like a bruisey pear before a dissatisfied consumer. No hard feelings.

"So," Cereus declares as the film ends and the Capitol's seal flashes across the screen. "Thoughts?"

"Fuck," Dasheen says simply. "There are so many."

"That about sums it up," I say. "The trainees seem tough. There's solid competition in the outer districts, too."

"Pair from Three, maybe girls from Six and Seven, guy from Seven if he sobers up and didn't hit his head too hard, maybe girl from Nine, and that fucker from Ten who looks like he wants to cut off my skin and wear it," Dasheen rattles off, counting on her fingers. "Seven real contenders plus six trainees plus us."

"Thirteen people in there who could probably kill you," Cereus says. "I don't need to tell you not to make an appearance at the bloodbath. I want both of you out of there. I'm going to repeat that so many times you'll want to punch me over the next few days. It's that important. Get – pardon my language – the fuck out. Let these guys duke it out, okay?"

The sober quality of his tone seems to take the wind out of even Dasheen's sails.

"Food?" She asks. "Water?"

"Do what we say and you'll have sponsors. We'll hit you with supplies early, before the prices spike. We know what we're doing. You will get the fuck out," Sharon explains.

It's easy to forget that Sharon is only a year or two older than us. She comes off like she might be anywhere from twenty-five to forty, but she won just three years back. It's aged her.

"Okay," Dasheen says. Without any smart comment.

"Okay," I repeat. "We got it."

"it's late," Cereus says, looking tired and older than his … what, mid-twenties? "Get some sleep. Breakfast – and tomorrow – are coming earlier than you think. Get used to sleeping early. Dasheen, you have the right idea about eating while you have the chance. Don't be shy about ordering food to your rooms. Tomorrow, we'll start practicing for when you first encounter the other tributes. But that'll be a while yet, okay?"

"Just sleep for now," Sharon says, a little more gently. "It's been a long day. Let us know if you need anything, okay?"

"Okay," I say numbly.

The distraction has ended. I'm back alone with my thoughts. This is bad.

"Can I get, like… some melatonin?" I ask.

Bona nods, finally speaking up again – I keep forgetting our gaudy escort is in the room. "The same panel from which you can order food can get you any supplement you might need."

"Melatonin is safe, but don't go with anything stronger," Cereus warns. "I need you sharp tomorrow, okay?"

Hearing that from someone who has been essentially my hero for a solid decade gives me the boost I need to stand up from my seat, say good night to Dasheen, Sharon, and Cereus, and head back to my quarters. Alone. Dark. I never feel alone in my house. This is new.

I get the melatonin like Cereus said I could and knock it back with a hot cup of milky tea. Tomorrow will come soon. God willing, I will be able to sleep.

Before the melatonin hits, I start to cry again. I let it happen, as sleep – and the grief I've been putting off feeling for so many hours – finally wash over me.

x

 _I DID IT_

 _I FUCKING DID IT_

 _FUCK YEAH_

 _I tried to recap some of the tributes that have been introduced over the last … two years, lol, but don't worry, I'll spotlight as many as I can through training and the interviews without sacrificing speed and readability_

 _I can't believe I'm done_

 _I'm free_

 _Anyway, thanks for reading this far, I appreciate the tenacity._


	24. Chariot Prep

_Note: another long one. Once we're in the arena, most chapters will probably lean 3k-5k. Be advised, we're getting to the point where I'm going to start shifting perspectives - if there's someone you want to hear from, or someone you don't like hearing from, please let me know._

Chariots Prep

x

This urge, wrestle, resurrection of dry sticks,  
Cut stems struggling to put down feet,

What saint strained so much,  
Rose on such lopped limbs to a new life?

'Cuttings', Theodore Roethke

x

Manari Issa, District 1

Lepida smiles broadly as she adjusts my costume for the chariot – even I have to admit that the sherwani they've crafted is a thing of beauty. It falls to my fingertips, form-fitting to the extreme, not a millimeter of space between the lining and my chest.

"I'm not sure the sherwani is supposed to be this tight," I comment, fidgeting with my churidars, which are so constricting that I half expect to lose circulation to my legs. "Or this short."

"We made some alterations to the traditional cut for stylistic reasons," Lepida explains cheerfully, fastening an unseen set of buttons that pulls the outer garment even tighter around my waist. "Don't worry, you look like a million bucks."

The sherwani is a luminous, almost glowing white, embroidered with silver and encrusted with pearls in designs shaped like roses twined together with shimmering vines. I can't find fault with its construction – it's certainly holding together well despite squeezing the life out of me.

"Just look at yourself," Lepida instructs me, prompting me to turn awkwardly on the plinth in front of the mirror.

Over the last hour, I've gained a deep empathy for the women who willingly don clothing this uncomfortable – but I can't deny that I look pretty excellent.

"No karakul?" I ask, just to pry at Lepida a little – I can't shake the feeling that this costume was hastily researched and redesigned to answer the question 'what _do_ brown people wear?'

"No, we decided against the hat after speaking with your mentors – can't make you look too foreign or we lose a measure of sponsor appeal. The sherwani was nonthreatening, but exotic." She shrugs. "I wanted to go with the full package, stay authentic, but Corsage put his foot down."

District 1 mentors have a shocking degree of influence over the pre-Games period in the Capitol – Corsage and Sequin have been working over sponsors, Capitol training instructors, stylists, technicians, and the odd Gamemaker when they get the chance since Jewel and I were formally selected as tributes nearly three months ago.

Understandably, this puts us at a sizeable advantage – we have handpicked stylists, the best prep teams that could be scraped together to suit our individual needs, and a jump start on sponsorships. Every year, they put together at least a few betting individuals willing to put down money on District 1 on spec – it's undeniable that we get results.

"Wait, we have one more piece to add – trust me, this is going to look _incredible_."

Lepida produces what looks like a thorny, oblong silver halo, roughly the same dimensions as my shoulders.

"Oh, dear," she exclaims, eying me with dismay. "We tailored the sherwani based on measurements your mentor gave us not three weeks ago, but the wreath was measured based on dimensions we got two months ago."

"It's not necessary," I say quickly. "I appreciate all you've already done for me."

Beyond the clothes, there was little they could do – I'm meticulously well groomed by District 1 standards, and I'm given to understand that what passes in District 1 passes quite well in the Capitol. Lepida introduced herself by complementing the clarity of my complexion and holding up three different shades of foundation to match to the color of my face.

"What's your secret?" she asked brightly.

"…bathing regularly?" I replied, squinting in confusion. "Novel idea, I know."

The prep team took off what was left of my facial hair, apparently permanently, according to one of the birdlike women who smeared a foul-smelling ointment across my jaw, and added what they called 'definition' to my eyebrows.

Old jurisprudence forbids such aesthetic alterations to one's person – which would be uncomfortable, were it not demonstrably in the interests of preserving my life. Religious laws regarding appearance aren't universally followed in my family – I know for a fact that Fahrah plucks her brows despite wearing the hijab – but I suppose that I would have preferred to keep as many of the old teachings as possible in light of the fact that I am, presumably, about to kill people.

Small sins add up, and whether or not there is true moral justification for murder, I'd rather keep as many small Haram acts off the scales as I possibly can. Saving up for the big-ticket item, as it were.

Lepida has taken to stretching the garland of silver thorns by hand, though a few dig into her palm and she begins to bleed – she seems not to notice, placing the wreath over my shoulders.

"There we go," she says, satisfied. "See, Manari, we need this in place – look at how well it sticks in place over the sherwani! – in order to place the cape properly."

"Are you alright?" I ask, concerned by the fact that Lepida has made no discernable effort to stem the bleeding from both of her hands.

"Oh, I'm perfectly fine – oh no!"

"What happened?"

She looks genuinely panicked. "I got a little – just a _little_ blood on the sherwani. Right on the shoulders. Oh no."

I glance down – 'a little' is an understatement.

"Here, don't worry, I can fix this," she declares, pausing abruptly, taking a cloth and wetting it with peroxide, dabbing at the stain.

The peroxide soaks through the sherwani and the impractically tight kurta beneath, cold on my skin.

"It's out, but it doesn't look perfect." Lepida dabs a bit more aggressively. "Tell you what. Let's just drip on a little more red."

She produces a tube of liquid red gel, and drips it strategically at the point where the thorns make contact with my shoulders. The effect is somewhat chilling as I glance nonchalantly into the mirror – I appear totally nonplussed by the fact that I, presumably, have dagger-like silver thorns digging into my flesh.

"Perfect," she breathes. "Now let's get the cape fastened – the garland will hold it in place."

The cape she attaches, she explains, is a Byzantine chlamys – long, pearlescent white like the sherwani and churidars. It drapes over one shoulder, a little off-center but held up elegantly and a little rakishly by the wreath of thorns.

Lepida seems excited by what she sees. "It'll billow, just a little, but the fabric drapes heavily enough to keep it anchored to the chariot by its own weight."

I don't dislike my stylist. She's content to narrate the process of assembling my costume, which has left me to my thoughts throughout the process, with minimal interaction. The more I interact with most people from the Capitol, the less I like them – the fact that she's been talking _at_ me rather than trying to hold a conversation has really elevated our relationship.

"You look very regal," she informs me. "Really, you've got the face for this – I'd die for those cheekbones, and the prep team brought out an excellent brow structure. I think we're going to do a little kohl around your eyes before we send you out, just to make them really pop – but hey, I'd put money on you."

That particular exclamation on her part gives me pause – I've never really put much thought into the idea that appearance would play a substantial role in garnering sponsorships, beyond the obvious necessity of being flashy enough to attract attention. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you look the part. Even without your chariot outfit, you carry yourself like a victor. I get the vibe it would be money well spent."

"They train us to carry ourselves like this. It's inauthentic - just in the spirit of honesty."

"If you want to minimize it, I'm not going to stop you – I know you've got the whole strong, silent, inscrutable character going on. That's not exactly typical for District 1, but I appreciate variety."

"I mean, a lot of things about me aren't exactly typical for District 1, if you really want to get into that."

She laughs. "You're not wrong. But I can't blame them for not wanting to send in cookie-cutter blond sociopaths every year. Really, they get boring to work with after a while. I feel better about the chariot gear I've got you in than I have about a project in a long time. All it takes is a little inspiration."

I cough conspicuously. Direct praise makes me feel ill-at-ease – though I suppose it also might be the tightly-bound sherwani squeezing my liver up into my lungs making me uncomfortable.

"How is Jewel?" I ask, changing the subject.

"Looking radiant, last time I checked." Lepida positively beams. "I did good work on this year's designs – we've got the same rose motif and general color scheme going on with her, and you should _see_ the way her dress billows – the perfect parallel to your cape, you'll just love it-"

I let her words wash over me. Very little about the Capitol has the potential to surprise me. District 1 itself was constructed in imitation of its modern skyline and candy-colored architecture, and the people of District 1 emulate Capitol culture in a similar fashion.

Probably the only thing that's really caught me off-balance about the entire experience is the complete lack of hatred I've developed for Jewel.

Admittedly, I hadn't put in enough of an effort to get to know her during training – that, and all accompanying misconceptions, is on me. But I thought myself to be a fair judge of character – really, I am, and that hasn't changed – only to find a real ally where I'd not been expecting one.

Our mentor Corsage has always tended to be hard on me – I appreciate that he finds some things about me confusing, and am generally fairly used to it. Provided I continued to perform well in training, there wasn't much he could do about not liking me during the process, especially given that he's only four years my senior.

On the train from the reaping, I was late to lunch. Dhuhr, somewhat predictably, interfered with out escort's strict sense of schedule. A few words into the second rak'a, I heard voices from outside my compartment, grating enough to be audible despite the excellent walls even within the train.

"Jewel, check on him – I swear to god, if he's fucking praying I'll give him something to pray about –"

Corsage, naturally. I wish I could say that the light of Allah filled my heart and I was able to return to the rak'a without missing a beat, but I hesitated for an eye-roll.

"What's the plan," I heard Jewel laugh, muffled to near-nothing by the wall. "You gonna yell at him to death? Because last I checked, he had half a foot on you."

"Just go – he's holding up lunch."

There came a point where I more or less accepted that it would have to be our other mentor Sequin's advocacy and my own deeply endearing nature that got me sponsors.

My door cracked open – Jewel glanced in, just as I segued to the recitation of the Tashahhud. She made no indication of having seen me and closed the door.

"Fuck's sake, Corsage, you can take it down like ten notches," she declared from the other side of the door.

"Is he in there?"

"You can check yourself if you care so much, I'm hungry."

I thought that spending time with Jewel in a confined space would make me like her less, given my predisposition to cast aspersions on her lifestyle. The actuality was quite the opposite.

She respects my privacy and encourages others to do the same – which is really the most that I could ask for in this context. And she does so with such finesse that it's hard to tell if this is genuinely the way she treats people or she has some kind of ulterior motive.

It's maddening, not knowing her agenda.

In my experience, it's uncommon for most anyone not in my immediate family to go out of their way to make my life easier or more pleasant. You get used to that in District 1 – people want something from you, no exceptions.

Her game plan is probably long-term, I guess. Or as long-term as it can be when we've got about a week to go before the Hunger Games begin.

She's a good deal smarter than I gave her credit for.

And her company is not unpleasant.

Lepida has finished her tangent on the subject of Jewel's costume – I'm stunned back into the present as she mists me with some kind of pearlescent aerosol spray.

"Not too much, don't worry," she reassures me, noting my furrowed brow. "Just a little shine for the cameras. You look great!"

I would hope so, with all the trouble to which she's clearly gone.

"You ready to head out and rendezvous with Jewel and Alarban?" Lepida asks, referencing the name of Jewel's stylist, which I've heard alluded to once or twice on the train.

"Yes," I say, with a pause. "Thank you, Lepida. I really appreciate the care you've put into this and the work you've done."

That's about as effusive as I get. She beams as though I've offered her a chunk of gold.

"It means a lot," she says, squeezing my forearm. "I see you doing great things. Now go out there and meet your district partner! Corsage and Sequin probably briefed you already, but remember – tall, dark, handsome, and ice cold."

She looks me over one last time.

"Make sure you cant your head up a little – it emphasizes your jawline, gives you the 'haughty' vibe you're going for."

I nod once. We've been practicing this for years – I know the part I'm supposed to play in the chariots, in training, and in the interview as well as I know my prayers.

"What are you waiting for?" she asks, ushering me out the door. "You're going to do great!"

 _Insha'Allah_ , I think. But I say nothing.

District 1 is among the first to load into the chariots – and Jewel has beaten me there. She looks radiant, her tawny hair curled and blown out like a lion's mane, makeup bold, eyebrows dark and perfectly shaped. Her toffee-colored skin looks even more starkly bronzed than usual against her pearlescent white dress, the same thick fabric and rigid structure as my sherwani.

Garlands of silvery thorns stretch around her waist, climbing like ivy up her structured bodice and weaving into her diaphanous sleeves and a cape that matches mine.

Lepida must have clued Alarban in about the red accents, because she appears to be bleeding from thorn-wounds in the same way that I do.

When she meets my eyes, her smoldering composure breaks and she grins widely – genuinely?

"Hot damn," she says appreciatively. "Not a stitch of fabric went to waste with these outfits."

"Are clothes always this uncomfortable for you?" I ask, by way of greeting. "Is this something you're used to?"

Her laugh is full and throaty, like her voice. "Short answer? Yes. If it's not cutting off circulation, you're not trying hard enough."

She shows me the massive, dagger-like white stilettos hidden under her long skirt.

"…how exactly are you going to stand in a moving chariot in those?"

With this, she draws her skirt up even further to reveal solidly defined and perfectly bronzed calves. "Murder training is good for the legs," she says – there's something wistful in her expression that evaporates as the phrase leaves her lips.

"Fair," I say simply.

"How do you feel? How was Lepida?"

"Fine...? Good?" I cock my head slightly, inviting her to explain her question.

"Corsage has been bitching at you for days, I figure you were due someone who wasn't going to just shit on your life," she says, shrugging.

"Well, I wouldn't say him being like this is anything new," I reply. "And I'm not due anything."

"It's hard to be different. I think you're at least owed some respect."

There's nothing about Jewel that's apparently anything divergent from District 1 expectations, so I don't know exactly where she's going with this. Are we having a moment? What's there to have a moment about? I think she picks up on my confusion and slight discomfort, because she backs off the subject.

"How hard do you think it would be to take that jacket thing off?" she asks brightly, eying my sherwani.

I don't have an immediate answer beyond a raised eyebrow.

"It's what all the Capitol girls up there are gonna be asking themselves," she laughs. "Mull it over."

"…that's a bit more your angle than mine," I argue.

Jewel barely needed coaching for her persona – she can ham like nobody's business with minimal prompting, positively exuding charisma, confidence, and sexuality at the drop of a hat. It's a mask I've almost never seen her remove.

Meanwhile, I've been coached to be even more aloof, distant, and arrogant than I already am. Which is something of a feat.

"We've got different target audiences," Jewel says with a wink. "The guys I need to throw money at me like to know I'm _accessible_. The girls who are gonna be tripping over themselves to bankroll your time in the arena want to know you're hard to get. They have to work to win you over."

I can't say I've never capitalized on that in the past, Allah forgive me, but I had hoped that such tactics were behind me.

"Well," I say. "Playing fire and ice, I guess we won't have to be competing for the same sponsors."

"Corsage is a fuck, but our mentors know what they're doing," she concedes. "Oh, look, District Two."

The words are casual, but it's enough to make me draw back about six inches, straighten my posture, tilt up my jaw as Lepida directed. Jewel's affect changes noticeably as well – her back arches, shoulders tossed behind her, lips pressed together sensually.

Our camaraderie may not be warm and fuzzy or honest or open or practical or even all that comforting, but there's a sense of stability and mutual respect. We've never quite seen each others' masks off, but sometimes a little bit of Jewel shows through the cracks.

I don't understand her, but I see a tiny piece of her humanity.

I wonder what parts of me I've inadvertently made visible to my district partner.

Jewel is smiling, now, her artificial expression entirely indiscernible from her genuine moments of happiness, the strain in the set of her jaw revealed only by context and familiarity.

"Showtime," she whispers, and behind her faux-playfulness, there is a core of cold steel.

I nod. Showtime.

x

Lucas Inoue, District 6

Yuna keeps steering me away from the edge of the chariot. I feel like some kind of farm animal, the way she sighs so sad and ragged like my mom and nudges my gaze away from the Careers, away from District 5 behind us, away from everything that's even a little interesting.

My legs feel weird and tingly, and I'd be scratching and picking at them if we weren't all covered in heavy metal like plate armor, decorated with yellow accents like they have on the side of the high speed rail cars that come off the assembly line.

The prep team scrubbed what felt like whole layers of skin off my entire body. They seemed a little sad, almost, though it's hard to tell with the way Capitol people talk. Just as they worked. Kind of quiet, more than you'd expect. Kept talking about how little I am. How I don't have any hair, really.

I know I'm young, and papa always says I'm not too bright either, but I'd think me being so small and so hairless probably makes their jobs easier, right? Because… well, they have less to do?

Capitol people being sad always surprises me.

Like, you know, at home we've got reason to be sad, sometimes. Small people like me in the arena always gets people down. It makes sense. I get that. But why would they care? Why does it matter? I just don't understand why you've gotta cry over the person your own boss is sending in to fight and get hurt and probably die?

I've felt all my sad already. All my crying is done, mostly, I tell myself a lot. I was sad when mama died, and I was sad for a long time after, and I was sad, really, and scared also when I found out what was going to happen to me.

But there's only so much you can cry, right? It's me who's gonna get hurt, so it's me who gets to be sad and scared. Not a bunch of bird women.

I tried to explain it to Yuna, but it was hard to get the words out in a way that she'd understand me. It's always hard to do that. Not just with Yuna, with everyone. I have lots of thoughts, I really do, it's just hard to talk them.

"Stop looking," Yuna warns me again as my eyes drift back to the Career tributes.

"I want to look," I insist. They sparkle, all of them – such beautiful people. So strangely other-world. We're taught to hate them, but I've never really understood hate for anyone. They just don't want to get hurt, right? So they try to learn how to keep themselves safe. That's how their parents protect them, just like my dad doesn't let me out too much on account of I might do something wrong and get hurt, or someone might hurt me. There's a lot of ways of protecting people. Even if they enjoy hurting people, well… someone's gonna hurt someone. If not them, the Gamemakers have heaps of bad animals and plants and fire and dirt and bad things to hurt us with.

It's all about who you want to hate. I don't want to hate anyone.

"They'll notice you staring," Yuna says, grinding her teeth. "They'll hurt you. They're _bad_."

She always tries to use really short words talking to me – I really want to explain to her that I understand, mostly, but I can't explain that any more than I can explain why I don't think the early district tributes are so bad out loud.

"I just… I just want to," I say again.

"Look at the horses," Yuna says, voice all short and clippy.

She is very tall for District 6, which isn't really a big deal because no one in District 6 is usually tall. Especially when you look at us next to other early districts, we tend to be little. She's more than five feet tall, by a good bit. And she is very pretty, with almost-black eyes like my mama had, and heavy black hair that goes at her shoulders. My papa has smaller eyes, but Yuna has moon eyes, like mama did – big and round, with her lashes hidden until she blinks.

I think I upset her a lot, but I try hard not to. I know she has a chance to survive, maybe, but she's just as scared as me of getting hurt bad, of how much it's gonna hurt when we die.

Our mentor, An, didn't want to give us an answer when I asked her how bad it hurt to die. She said she didn't know. She said she hoped not too bad, and it's usually quick, but Yuna made a huff noise like she does when she thinks people are lying, so I don't really trust that. I think it's going to hurt a lot. I'm scared of how much. I once fell down the stairs and broke my arm. I bet it's like that but everywhere, and lots of gross blood.

When Yuna seems distracted by her thoughts, and confident that I am looking at the pretty grey horses in front of the chariot, I look up again, all sneaky, so I can watch all of the people in front of us who already have their places in the chariots.

The first ones are so beautiful – they're all in white and silver with red speckles that might be blood, but there's a lot of it and they're still moving so I don't think it is. They have skin that shines where the light hits it.

I'm all covered in this armor, but I know it shines kind of the same way – impossible to look away!

The next ones are talking to the ones in white, wearing structured grey-brown outfits that glimmer with touches of gold, held into cool arching shapes with what look like silver beams, bringing the outfits into all kinds of crazy directions. A long tight dress on the girl, that covers her entire body, and a fitted suit-type sort of thing on her partner.

The boy, I think, looks like Yuna. Delicate in the face, like a doll. Calm eyes - Yuna is always so calm and serious.

I want to tell her, but I remember her scolding me and decide not to. I don't want her to be any more upset with me than she already is.

Then there's the next ones, from District 3, where they build useful things that we don't in District 6. They are both wreathed in LED lights, wearing costumes of a dark emerald green the color of the board where all the pieces of a computer stick and work together. They are both very dark, with shaved heads – the girl is small and skinny, the boy massive and broad-shouldered.

They look like something from another world. Too beautiful to exist - not just reflecting the light, but creating it - they glow.

I'm beginning to second-guess the outfits they've given me and Yuna.

District 4 isn't in their chariots - they've scooted out to talk to District 1 and District 2, which fits with what I know from tv. They group together, raised the same, common goals until not anymore. Dangerous people, but dangerous to each other in the long term. My father keeps me from seeing those parts if he can avoid it, but I sneak reruns some time, too curious to avoid it without someone saying that I have to.

Half the blood comes from their group. Yuna is right to be wary - right to condemn? Not sure.

The pair from District 4 are decked out in seafoam, holographic purple and pink and blue and green woven together with deep green-blue sea grass. I've never been in the ocean, never seen it in person, but I get a similar feeling watching the movement of these outfits - weight and age and rhythm of motion.

Then District 5 - less impressive. A tall and reedy boy, dark hair, light skin, big green eyes that I can see as he glances back beside a small and shaky girl, darker skin and tangled black hair like spun sugar but burnt to a crisp. Both wearing bodysuits meant to look like black metal, luminous yellow color on their hands and highlighting their features.

I'm not sure if I can look back without Yuna catching on, but maybe she wouldn't mind so much if she didn't think I was looking at the early districts, who seem to scare her.

I decide to risk it, and turn and give a friendly wave at the pair from District 7 behind us. My shiny-metal suit makes it harder to bend my arm, but I give it a real try.

Though Yuna notices, I think, because her mouth turns down a little, she doesn't say anything. Maybe even looks a little relieved that I'm not staring up at the early districts anymore. I feel her relax a little beside me.

"Can we… meet them?" I whisper.

They look friendly - a tall, handsome boy with skin that is a beautiful color, like the flank of a deer, and curly black hair, next to a girl so skinny that she looks like she might blow away in the wind, bright golden-hazel eyes set in a dark face, her hair all the way to her hips. Both smiling, though there is tension in their faces. I think they are scared, maybe in the same way that Yuna is. I wish she had someone to talk to - I know I can't be a good talking partner, but maybe the girl or the boy could comfort her.

"An doesn't want us to make friends, remember? She wants us to just run."

"I bet they can run, too," I insist.

An, our mentor, is a little scary. She is very small, and seems both sad and angry about me being there with Yuna. Mostly doesn't make eye contact with me. It reminds me of the prep team, though she has maybe more right to feel sad on my account - angry at my being here, though she expresses it with sharpness in her voice aimed at me when I do the wrong thing.

"Fine," Yuna says. "I think we're held up - District 10 isn't here yet, it doesn't look like."

She gives me a questioning look, like she's trying to tell if I understand her. I wish I could arrange my face to convince her that I do, I do understand, more than she thinks.

"Come on, we can go over - don't panic if anyone yells at us, I'll handle it."

"I…. I wouldn't panic," I tell her.

She nods, like 'sure'.

"Follow," she tells me, hopping down from the chariot and holding out her hand to help me down.

I know she is trying to help, but it really does bother me a little how stupid she thinks I am. I know it's on account of how I act and come off, but I really… I really understand. I just have trouble explaining. Not listening.

"Hey," Yuna says to the girl and boy from District 7. "I'm Yuna, and this is Lucas. He really likes your costumes."

I give their costumes a second look. Strips of papery white bark wrapped around them like short one-shoulder dresses, tied in place with silver cords. The girl's long hair has been left loose, but has some silvery leaves pinned in.

They do look very good. I smile broadly to back up what Yuna said about me liking them. I think that will help. The girl smiles back - the boy's eyebrows press together, like he's not quite sure that I really do like his outfit.

So I smile a little wider.

"Wow, thank you!" The girl says, very enthusiastic. "I'm Fidan, and this is Ollie!"

Now the boy's mouth is pressed tight like he doesn't want any words to come out.

"How are you holding up?" Yuna asks the two of them. "Some crazy shit, right?"

"I've eaten so much food," Fidan says brightly. "Not thinking about anything else right now. I don't know what half of the meat here is."

Yuna laughs, I think politely because the girl didn't say anything that funny. Ollie, the boy, still hasn't spoken.

"Yeah," he eventually says. "Pretty crazy."

"Have you seen the career tributes this year?" Fidan asks, not sounding quite so happy.

"What a mess," Yuna says, shaking her head.

I'm having trouble judging the exact ways they relate to each other, which is nothing new, but very jarring in such a high-tension place and time. I feel lost, like there is a lot that I'm missing in the short words they are trading. Maybe? Fear and nervousness is rolling off of all of us.

I can't help it, I glance back at the tributes from the early districts - even they are tense, moving more like jointed children's toys than people. Barely. I bet even they don't notice it.

No one seems to have much more to say, but luckily we are saved from the weirdness of the quiet between us when a few avoxes come by to gesture us into our proper positions.

Things have definitely changed since earlier Games, when the tributes from each district were more often than not directed to stand side-by-side without even looking at each other. Maybe it comes from the success of the gimmick when used in the last normal Games before the Mockingly Rebellion - or maybe it's something else. Everyone talks a lot more about district unity now, my dad says when we watch the chariots.

Used to say.

Now he will be watching me. I won't ever watch them with him again. He's alone. Heat wells up in my face. My eyes feel wet.

Yuna looks at me, very distressed to see my sorrow. She fumbles around on her costume for something soft to dry my tears with. There's nothing, though. The costumes may be a little sweaty on the inside of the shiny metal, but they are cold hard shells on the outside.

She stoops and wipes my face clean with her thumb.

"Don't let them see, okay? Don't satisfy them like that - don't play to type," she cautions me, though she doesn't look sure.

I sniff a little. "An said I should be… vulnerable."

"That's bullshit. You deserve your dignity, okay?"

She seems a little too tense and urgent, like she isn't sure if I'm understanding her or she should explain again.

I just want to reassure her, for once, that I'm not stupid - that she doesn't have to be looking after me all the time, especially since she clearly isn't very naturally skilled at it.

"I understand," I say, "I promise. I hate… being pitied."

She breathes out with relief.

"Thank god. I'm sorry, you know… I can't be more help. I have a little brother not much younger than you, you know. I wish I could do something to help. I just feel so useless."

I put a hand on her arm, trying to reassure her that I'm not her job. Without words, because words always confuse my meaning. She stands a little straighter. Takes a deep breath in.

"Ready?" she asks me.

"Ready," I say, letting my hand fall to the side as we assume the pose that our stylists suggested - Yuna placing her hand lightly on my shoulder, looking very motherly and capable.

Making me look a little less like someone who can take care of myself - but there's really no point in pretending, right?

I've cried it out. Mostly. And I won't be the only one who mourns me - maybe this will give Yuna the chance to outsurvive all of them here - Fidan and Oliver behind us, the early districts in their glowing clothing.

I think I just feel resigned, mostly. Alone, even with Yuna's hand resting on my shoulder.

Probably not the sort of face that our mentor would want me to wear on the chariot ride… but it's the only face I have.

x

 _Next chapter will round out the chariots with a view from the Head Gamemaker and the President - expect that tomorrow!_


	25. Chariots

Chariots

x

murder's a godfather to birth  
and the born sing illiterate songs  
they intend as a new kind of language

only as their hands bloom red  
with their own brand of murders  
will their words simmer down to the same

'against the ladling of doom', Rg Gregory

x

From the President's box, two pairs of eyes waited for the action to begin: Annia, the Head Gamemaker, standing at rapt attention in a royal purple gown constructed of heavy velvet and accented with black embroidery at the sleeves, and President Lancaster in a nondescript grey skirt suit, seated beside her.

"How do you feel about this year?" Annia asked, not looking away from the amphitheater, the center of which remained empty as the crowds whipped themselves into a frenzy.

"Well enough," Lancaster responded. "The boy from Six was a mistake. Half of District Six has themselves lathered up about disability exemptions. His father is someone of some importance. That's going to be a problem."

"I'm sorry. We should have learned by now not to leave any of them to chance. I just thought it wouldn't matter - we're supposed to be fair, right? If we didn't have a particular tribute in mind, we could just let randomness bear out. I was wrong."

Annia tightened her lips, though her eyes seemed to have more to say. Only a glimmer of fear at what she seemed to have accepted as her own failure.

"I don't blame you. But I expect you will continue to take fallout for the oversight. For the moment, I don't have the capital to bail you out - not with _you-know-who_."

"He's not a viable challenger," Annia insisted, finally looking away from the throngs in the stadium seating. "He's barely more than a distraction."

She was referring to Richard Lorca, a prominent Capitol businessman who had recently taken to politics on a platform of 'anything but Lancaster'. While he hadn't gained much momentum in any but a few circles, his financial assets and public celebrity made him a difficult man to entirely ignore.

"The death threats have picked up again, with what he's spewing," Lancaster said, more acid in her mild tone than usual. "That's a distraction too. But it's a distraction that keeps me locked in a room for half my life, surrounded by men in white armor. I don't like it."

"Once the Games are on, the news cycles will forget him."

"I hope so, Annia. You must not let me down."

"I won't, I promise. You know this is all I'm working on, all I'm thinking about. We'll make them forget about the boy as quickly as we can. We'll make his death an easy one, get rid of the martyr."

"Of course. I trust you. Now watch. It's starting."

President Lancaster and the Head Gamemaker resumed their focus on the stadium as the first chariot rolled into view.

The tributes from District 1 were beautiful, as they always were, decked out in white and silver and pearls, dripping blood from invisible wounds though they stood proud as soldiers. The boy couldn't be less than six and a half feet tall, and he dwarfed his partner - though the energy with which she held herself kept him from absorbing all of the focus with his sheer size and cold composure.

As he stood stock still, barely sparing the crowd a glance, the girl wasted no time in catching flowers thrown her direction, responding with a jaunty wink, brushing her partner's shoulder, rose in hand, with a teasing gesture.

Lancaster murmured quiet approval as the gleaming white chariot from District 1 was followed out by District 2 in a simple black vehicle.

Dressed in high-necked black costumes marbled with gold and copper veins, the pair from District 2 cut an equally imposing figure. They stood closer together than the tributes from District 1, practically leaning on each other - the expression of the young man pleasant but steely, his partner wide-eyed and practically vibrating with the energy of the moment.

Annia spared more than one covert glance to watch the reaction of the President, who remained seemingly pleased with the procession as another black chariot drew out the tributes from District 3 - stock-still, straight-backed, hand in hand, looking like royalty in their luminescent costumes. Seemingly ignoring the crowds.

Then came District 4, in fascinating outfits of blue and green and silver that seemed to change color with their movement, or would have, had they been moving more. The girl stood like a monolith, eyes narrowed and shoulders squared, not participating in the energy of the crowd. her partner, meanwhile, reveled in the attention, waving and shouting back, grinning ear to ear with the excitement of it all.

District 5 was a bit of a letdown. Their costumes, which gave the appearance of blackened armor lined in yellow, did little to hide the fragility of the girl and the youth of the boy. He, at least, was making a game effort to stand up straight and smile - she looked like she would be lucky to still be in the chariot by the end of the ride.

"Here comes Six, the damn thorn in my side," Lancaster sighed.

In a similarly armored getup and a mirrored silver chariot, the pair from District 6 appeared. Lancaster must have been relieved to see no tears on the little boy's face, nothing to elicit undue sympathy beyond the hand of his taller district partner draped carefully around his shoulder. She maintained a strict composure herself, not engaging with the crowd, pausing at one point to whisper something to the boy - at which he straightened his back.

President Lancaster and the Head Gamemaker both let out a sigh of relief that neither had been consciously holding on to.

After that, District 7 seemed almost anticlimactic, despite their lovely costumes of strips of birch bark edged in silver. The girl seemed hesitant about engaging with the crowd, but determined to make a go of it, while her sullen partner scowled and managed to actively bat away a rose that got too near his face.

Then District 8 rolled in - singularly unimpressive, wreathed in masses of black thread that washed out the pale blonde girl and buried her slim partner, who looked deeply displeased with his costuming but was still gamely trying to connect with the crowd.

"No mentors really is quite a disadvantage," Lancaster noted, watching them. "We should do something about that. Even the playing field a little."

"We're working on a way to make it happen," Annia responded, watching the young woman from District 8 flinch at an especially loud cheer.

They were followed by District 9, who somehow managed to be underwhelming in their golden chariot and their beautiful golden costumes, the textiles of which seemed to be woven from sheaves of wheat. The girl was built impressively enough, but lacked any sort of presence, didn't seem sure what to do with her hands. Her partner, another of the small boys, looked defiant but also unbelievably young.

District 10 was always something of a toss-up, could be hit or miss in the quality of the designers' work, but this year's tributes were more interesting for their behavior than their gingham costumes - specifically, the girl had clearly edged as far away from her partner as the chariot would allow.

He grinned and waved, seemingly ignoring her - she cowered.

"That one," President Lancaster said, breaking her silence again. "What's the story on that one?"

"I read his application to become a Peacekeeper myself - the scorer in Ten forwarded it to me personally. He's a real piece of work. Exactly what they're trying to keep out of the force."

"Perfect. I love an outer district villain."

"That's how we have him cast. We'll see how it goes."

"Watch him ham! The boy's a natural."

"We'll do what we can to keep him in the running, of course."

"You'd best. Villains get ratings. You need ratings. _I_ need ratings," Lancaster reiterated.

"I'm still liking the wildcard girl from District Two."

"District Two villains are so played out," the President sighed. "But I trust your judgement."

"She's unpredictable, so we'll focus on him, as you're suggesting. Just good to have a backup."

"You're right. I trust you for a reason, you know."

They quieted as, finally, District 11 was drawn in on a golden chariot, decked out in vibrant green robes - the girl tall, chin raised in defiance, eyes sparking with something that could almost be dangerous. Beside her, the boy was less impressive, though taller in stature than most of the pool, but his slightly askew wireframe glasses were reminiscent of a dozen other tributes who proved that brains were not to be underestimated.

"Cereus always does such a good job as a mentor," the Head Gamemaker noted. "A week ago, you'd have laughed at me if I called those two 'contenders'."

"I still might, what with the rest of the pool."

"District 11 has grit."

"That's true. But the trainees hate them, after the woman a few years ago - Sharon."

"That can't be helped. Are you ready to head down, President? They'll be ready for you to speak, soon."

President Lancaster stood, straightening her thick grey skirt. "How do I look?"

"Presidential."

She laughed wryly. "Good. Yes, I'm ready. Let's head down."

x

"If I'm not the first to say it, let me be the most sincere - welcome to the Capitol. You honor us so highly with your presence and your sacrifice. Every year seems to raise the question anew - why the Hunger Games? Why this element of tradition and familiarity in a society as dynamic as modern-day Panem?"

It would be more traditional if the welcome was delivered from the balcony of the President's mansion, but that structure was razed following the Mockingly Rebellion. To rebuild it, the President had felt, would be counterintuitive to the process of reconstruction. One couldn't adhere too stubbornly to tradition without recalling the very problems - the sharp edges - that had led to the unrest in the first place.

Placation, as always, was the name of the game. If not the Games.

"I'll tell you why - as I do every year. The Capitol must own its past, just as we all own our actions. The Games, in the past, in the wrong hands, were an instrument of terror. To many of you, I'm sure, leaving your homes to be here with me tonight, there are echoes of that terror on your mind. For that, I can only apologize - and thank you for the strength of character each of you is displaying as you stand before me."

As the President spoke, while her voice remained the only noise amplified across the quiet throngs in the stands, the camera cut across the faces of the tributes, displaying their reactions in real time.

She was not an especially charismatic orator, but her words were carefully chosen.

"You are not being punished. Once, you were told that was why we held the Games - as a punishment. Nothing could be further from the truth. It is by returning to the roots of our society that we can return to the original sentiment of the Games - the opportunity to elevate both your districts and yourselves in competition. Whether you were chosen at random or volunteered to be here this evening, please know that we celebrate each and every one of you. You are the best of what your district has to offer. You have already made your families proud. You have made me so indescribably proud. You are the finest of us all."

Her voice was heavy with sincerity.

"I didn't just lose my husband in the Second Rebellion, I lost both of my sons, and I lost a country that I thought I loved. That I was wrong to love as it was - but right to love for what it could become. And today, you stand before me in validation of everything that I love about Panem, the country I serve. The strength of its children, the Districts, and the children of its children - yourselves."

"Panem will never be held down for long - whether by corruption or by avarice or by acts of nature. We will rise and we will fight and we will win. Keep your district and those you love in your hearts, and know that you are their pride. You are our pride. I can't wait to see what you will do in these next few days. Thank you, good night, and the best of luck to every one of you."

x

 _Not exactly a high-octane chapter, but this side of the Games is important to the mild social commentary I'm trying to write. I might try to start publishing chapters, like, on the weekends or something, because that seems to be when people end up reading fanfiction. Which feels counterintuitive to me because weekend nights are always ungodly busy for me, but I am a servant to my traffic stats._

 _Anyway, for real, hit me with those 'tributes you're interested in' if you are like, interested in any of them. I have an outline for this story but I wrote it in 2015 so suffice to say, anything could happen._

 _Also, if you're reading this far (statistically not many people are, but that's chill) the evolution of the THG fandom continues to puzzle me - I wrote a similar story to this back in 2010, then another in 2012, and now writing this in 2017, all have been met with wildly different receptions? Just an observation. That's the lore for tonight. Next chapter will focus on training._


	26. Training Day 1

_Note: legit y'all, I'm flying kinda blind as to what you're interested in reading at this point, so I'm going with my instincts, which is ... historically not always a great idea. If there's a direction you either like or don't like, please don't hesitate to let me know in a review!_

x

Training Day 1

x

to have seen them

fall fall fall fly changed some

thing in me, some thing that felt safe, certain,

orderly. Now I must embrace the

soft chaos,

brief moments

of freedom,

trust.

'Soft Chaos', Alma Luz Villanueva

x

Damask Bhatti, District 8

I can't believe we don't have a mentor. Me and Jean, between the two of us, have an escort whose sole utility seems to be making meals _really_ awkward and, beyond her, nothing. It fucking sucks, and I have no idea what I'm doing as we make our way down to the training center via the space-age looking elevator and the long, white, clinically-lit halls.

While I'm walking with Jean, I'm not, like, walking _with_ her to training. Literally all she does is cry and complain - about our chariot outfits, about how rich the food is, about fucking everything. It's obnoxious. I wouldn't ally with someone like her if you paid me. How do you live in District 8 and end up so entitled? How do you make it all the way to the Capitol and not realize that at some point you're gonna have to stop blubbering in the bathroom every time someone makes an off-color comment about how we're maybe a little fucked?

She's not like, the worst, but she also sorta is.

Not like she seems interested in allying with anyone, me or otherwise. Or anyone seems too then with her for that matter, though it's not like we've had much of a chance to get to know the other tributes. Most of the outer districts seem pretty typical - the District 11 pair are thick as thieves, there are a few surly tributes, the woman from 9, the guy from 7, who just seem kinda checked out. I don't know. I'm probably not paying as much attention as I should be.

I keep asking myself, honestly, what am I going for here? I'm just trying to keep it real is all. I know I'm pretty fucked. I know this is going to be shitty. I know I'm gonna halfheartedly try to learn something in training while the volunteers from the trainee districts dance around us in circles doing fancy weapons bullshit to show off how good they're going to kill us.

I dunno. I'm struggling to make sense of things. I want to go home, yeah, but no point being a little bitch about it like Jean. Just gotta keep on keeping on. Put on a good face, pick up a spear or some shit, figure out how to use it. Name of the game.

We're pretty early - District 8 punctuality clearly still a factor. The volunteers haven't shown up yet, and there's just a few tributes milling about, mostly paired off by district, but in the loose way that Jean and I are standing in each others' vicinity but not together. Not much to really catch the eye. The really young guy from District 9 and his beefy partner - who honestly looks enough like a man herself - and the pair from District 11, who keep trading meaningful glances from a bench near the double doors through which we entered the room - are the only duos that seem to actually be getting along.

Typical, I guess. District solidarity really only goes so far, especially if you don't have a fucking _mentor_ to push it.

Minutes tick by and more districts filter in - notably, the twelve year old girl from District 10 enters the room completely alone, which almost surprises me. I'd figure she's have glommed onto the guy from her district like static cling, but like, hats off to him for shedding that dead weight. You can pretty much tell from looking at her that she's completely useless. Maybe keeping her around would add a measure of sponsor appeal, but at the cost of an annoying and slow burden.

Besides, the problem with district allies where one is some charming young thing and the other actually has a fighting chance is that, even with the extra sponsor help, the dead weight tends to slow the competent one down just enough to get them taken out by the Careers or some mutt - and yeah, they get to die nobly and maybe get a few good-guy points for biting the bullet and doing the 'right thing' but they still don't win. They still die.

It's a losing proposition, ultimately - like, looking at the track record of district kids who win, you either make a strong alliance and run or just like, _run_. The 'morality pet' angle that some people try to play hasn't yet produced a victor.

I guess I should be on the lookout for a strong ally, but at the same time, I'm not gonna get my hopes up. I'm not going to be someone's pet project - I'm not young and cute enough for that, and I have my pride, anyway.

Finally, some action lights up as the Careers - paired off, of course, but much louder than any of the outer-district couples who've deigned to show up for training - walk in.

"Are we late?" the girl from District 1 is asking, apparently directing the question to her partner, but talking loud enough that we can all hear her, especially in the silent room.

He shakes his head by way of reply, his stony expression not changing even slightly.

"Damn, well, guess the party starts when we walk in," she says - more announces, honestly, because he's clearly not engaging with her on a conversational level, and her voice really fills the quiet room.

The guy is too busy inspecting the room, scowling when anyone meets his gaze, to join her in the exercise. He's clearly not a guy to be fucked with, that much is obvious. Interesting, though, that he's from District 1 - in skin tone and in the shape of his face, he could almost be, like, my cousin. Despite the fact that he's about twice my size. Big, but not like, one of those bull-necked tributes you sometimes see from District 2. He has kind of a quiet, terrifying charisma thing going on.

Mystery how he ended up paired off with a loud-mouth like his partner, but she seems to be the only one in the room he's not actively glaring at - and he follows where she leads. Bizarre.

The pair from District 4 are similarly mismatched, the guy looking around, making occasional exclamations of enthusiasm, while his partner, a brooding and muscular woman, mostly ignores both him and everyone else. There's not the same strange synchronization in movements and intentions that the pair from District 1 are displaying, which is a little odd. Then you've got District 2, hanging back on the outskirts so I can barely get a good look at what they're doing - they still seem more comfortable in this environment than any of the outer district tributes.

As I'm wondering when we're gonna get started already, the head instructor for the Capitol's training center - who our escort, back at our quarters, called 'Octavion' - finally shows up. He's a commanding presence, a big guy with a full beard and just a little salt-and-peppering at his temples. I'm a little relieved to see we actually have someone who looks the part in charge of this part of the process.

He ushers in a few other instructors, who he introduces as the individuals who will be assisting at the stations scattered throughout the center - and makes a few dire warnings about harming other tributes and the consequences for 'getting ahead of ourselves'.

"Save it for the Games," he says grimly, "or you may not make it to them. Understood?"

The assembled tributes - including, I am relieved to observe, the Careers - nod assent.

"Good. Off you go, now. There's a lot to learn and not much time to learn it."

Don't I know it. Squaring my shoulders, as the other tributes around me begin to move towards various stations, I set my course for the knife work station. I'm going to focus on a simple weapon - can't be too risky - and hopefully pay attention to what everyone else is doing to figure out my next move. What else is there to do?

Maybe there will be an ally in this for me. Maybe not. Either way, I'm already starting to feel crushed under the anticipation of the next few days of this - in this windowless training center, surrounded by such confusing and obnoxious people.

I wish I had a plan, but I just don't. And it sucks.

But like, what else did I expect?

x

Angel Lozada, District 4

"So, okay, weird question-" I begin, as, after a morning of picking around at the knot-tying and swordplay stations as a pair, Renata and I join the two tributes from District 1 for lunch at what has already informally become the trainee table "-Jewel. Any chance you're related to the Jewel from like four years back?"

"Hm? Tall blonde girl?" she asks, shifting her attention to me immediately, setting down her silverware.

"Yeah, that's most of you all in One."

"Does she _look_ like she's related to her?" her district partner, Manari, asks, shooting me a withering look.

Jewel brushes the moment of tension away with her hand. "No, he's right. Angel, yeah? Are there many people in your district named Angel?"

"Uh, a few," I say, shrugging. "It's not uncommon on the coast."

"What's a common one?"

"I know like five Ursulas, for some reason."

"Well, Jewel is a common name. Like Ursula. Even if there's like, no Jewels where you're from, we've got a fuckton. I had to be 'Jewel L.' all through grade school, and again in training. Fucking 'Jewel L.', sounds like I can't pronounce my own name."

I laugh - a little bit politely, a little bit because the animation with which she tells the story is actually kind of amusing. She grins in response.

"Anyway, not related. Her name was Jewel Goldberg and she was about a foot taller than me. Also, like, blonde and shit, which I'm not. If it's gonna be hard to differentiate us in your mind, I can be 'short Jewel', 'loud Jewel', or 'brunette Jewel'. Kinda done with 'Jewel L.'."

"Not a problem, just curious," I say, a little embarrassed but grateful that she doesn't seem offended. District 1 naming customs are _weird_.

"Did you all have a good evening after the chariots?" she asks, completely dismissing the previous topic.

"Yeah, our mentor is kind of an asshole though. Literally spent the rest of the night listening to him complain about how he'd wanted to get y'all's stylists. Which is weird, because I thought our outfits were great - I mean, you looked amazing, of course, but some of that's just because you look amazing. Like, you can't fake that with styling. Really good, like, you stole the show."

I realize that I am babbling and can't seem to stop. "And, uh, your partner, too."

"For fuck's sake," Renata hisses, "cállate."

"What?" Jewel asks, squinting her eyes just a little bit - inquisitive vibes, not aggressive.

"Shut up," Renata translates, shooting me a murderous look.

"Sorry, me?" Jewel clarifies.

"No, este tonto," Renata tells her, canting her forehead to indicate me.

I smile. "Yes, this idiot! You should talk, I'll be quiet."

"The two of you speak another language!" Jewel announces, sounding delighted. I know Renata well enough to catch the barely-noticeable eye-roll, but either it was only visible because I was looking for it or Jewel is ignoring her obvious disdain.

"Yeah, we do," I tell her.

"That's pretty cool," she says. "Like a built-in code!"

It feels amazing when Jewel pays attention to you - I don't know how Renata seems to be immune. Like, you can tell that even her district partner isn't completely unaffected by how magnetic she is. Something about words of praise or affirmation is just 50 times better when she's saying it.

Like, I don't think it's just because she's hot, either - if you look at her really close, she has a nice enough face, but not the kind you'd write home about, and a good body, but not like… special, especially for a District 1 girl. Built kinda short and stocky, thick-muscled without much grace. Dark-skinned enough to be a girl from the coast, but hazel-eyed and curly-haired. Nothing you'd think twice about if she wasn't practically glowing from the inside.

She's moved on to shining that spotlight of absolute attention to Renata - complimenting her name, asking about the train ride and our mentors and stylists, responding as though she's the most fascinating person she's ever met.

Renata just doesn't buy it.

"What's the food like in District Four?" Jewel is asking, gesturing at the bread basket in the middle of the table. "I love these seaweed-type loaves."

"Mostly what you can catch," Renata says, voice comparatively flat and disinterested. "Fish, shellfish. Rice is cheap so lots of that."

"Does Capitol seafood stack up, so far? I'd figure it would be better fresh, right?"

"Haven't had it since I got on the train, wouldn't know."

Jewel narrows her eyes almost imperceptibly as Renata looks down to take a bite of potatoes - she seems to sense me noticing and shoots me a conspiratory glance, like, 'you seeing this?' And I am. I wish Renata would engage more - I know we're basically guaranteed an alliance with Districts 1 and 2, but there's no harm in actually _trying_ to get along with them.

"Is Two coming?" the District 1 guy asks, clearly only talking to Jewel.

I bet he and Renata would get along, if Renata would swallow her pride for twenty seconds and try to _engage_.

"We can invite them over," Jewel suggests. "Looks like the two of them are busy at spear-throwing. Wanna come with me?"

Her partner shrugs wordlessly, but stands and follows her to the station where the pair from Two are - well, not actually throwing spears. Just talking, by the looks of things.

"No entiendo su erección para esta piruja," Renata spits, the second Jewel is out of earshot.

"No deberías decir eso!" I complain. "Come on, Renata, these are our people!"

"These are _not_ our people. You're being manipulated."

"Yeah, I know, I know, she's fake as shit, but let me enjoy myself, okay? And don't call her a slut."

"Voy a llamar ella como la veo."

"Suit yourself, I like her," I say, and Renata rolls her eyes - this time there's no mistaking it. "What, you think she'll backstab us?"

"No, not right away or anything. I don't hate her - look, I know I'm being kind of a bitch, I don't want to make this harder than it is, I'm just not comfortable with them, okay?"

"It's okay," I tell her. "Let's just try, okay? This alliance has potential, you know it does. These are the people to watch out for this year. We don't have to stay past final ten if you don't want to."

She sighs.

"I'm not getting an untrustworthy impression, this just isn't the kind of people I'd like to be spending time with."

"That's your call," I say. "Jewel's exactly the kind of person I like spending time with, fake or not."

"Pinche tonto," she says, but she gives me at least a half-smile along with her eyeroll.

I understand her discomfort. Manari and Jewel give off inlander vibes in spades - the way they sit, the way they eat, it all says 'I expect this level of respect, I expect treatment as an important person, I expect you to pay attention to me and what I say and want' - and it can get grating and obnoxious when that hasn't always been your experience, as it hasn't for me and Renata. Neither of us is totally comfortable in our swanky Capitol digs, being catered to left and right.

I'm willing to enjoy the ride, but Renata clearly isn't. And like, I get it. I just think it's worth getting what we can out of the experience rather than renouncing it as some sort of indignity to our upbringing. She's allowed to disagree.

"Look who we brought!" Jewel announces, returning to the table, followed by the pair from District 2, her partner flanking her silently. "Cora, Marcus, it's good to have you."

We've talked to them before - the previous night during the chariot prep, we all exchanged words. I hadn't realized it, but I'd completely forgotten both of the District 2 tributes' names. They look a lot less intimidating out of their chariot gear, but you can never be sure with District 2.

The guy - Marcus - is just as gorgeous as he was on a television screen. I probably have about an inch of height on him, but there's something really intimidating about his gaze, the quiet way he seems to be drinking in information from the world around him without actually having to engage with it. Well-styled dark hair, a yellow-brown sort of complexion that inland people are always trying to achieve by baking themselves under the sun, but just a little olive-y rather than orange so you can tell it's natural. He smiles when he meets my eyes, and _damn_ is it a smile. Cabrone is pulling heartstrings I barely knew I had.

"You're Angel, right?" he says, his tone of voice soft and unassuming.

"Yeah," I say, running my hand through my hair, wondering how it looks, laughing a little uneasily.

"We didn't mean to make you all wait," he adds apologetically, almost imperceptibly nudging the girl next to him as though to induce her to apologize as well.

Cora is only a little shorter than he is, though she couldn't be more different-colored if she tried. Her hair is a sort of messy and thin golden blonde, and she's pale as a ghost, like we're talking blue undertones, a strange sort of hollow look to her face. She's got huge brown eyes and full lips and fine bone structure that should say 'beautiful'. Except in this context they come off weird, like there's something not quite right. Something about her eyebrows, which are a little patchy now that she's not fully made up. Same with the figure, like, girl has some serious boob action going on, but you can see blue veins a little too clearly under the nearly-translucent skin stretched over her figure.

Maybe someone's cup of tea, but not mine.

"Got distracted," she says. "Spears, y'know how it is."

She glances at Marcus like she's trying to make sure she said the right thing - I don't quite catch the expression he makes in response, too busy watching her shiver, even though it's not that cold.

"We've all been there," Jewel says to Cora, smiling warmly - Cora smiles back. "So, do we all feel good about this? The time to put our cards on the table is now."

"It seems like a solid alliance," I say quickly, not especially caring how eager I sound to agree with Jewel.

"No one wants to drag in anyone else?" Jewel clarifies. "No one's uncomfortable signing off on sticking together to the final twelve, ten, depending on how things go?"

"We're glad to be involved," Marcus says, and Cora nods.

"Not sure who else we would want," Renata adds.

"Well, I've been keeping my eye on the competition," Jewel clarifies. "I don't think we should make any moves - I like the traditional alliance - but that said, there are some people we should watch."

"The pair from District Three?" I suggest.

"Exactly," Jewel agrees, beaming at me. "They're top of the list. Has anyone learned anything about them?"

"The guy is pretty big," Renata suggests. "Not training-big, but like… he's got a few days to learn how to use weapons and fuck us up."

I'm picking up on her comfort level increasing as the conversation turns away from the realm of the personal and more towards tactics and the Games themselves. Renata has never really enjoyed talking about herself - I probably knew her the least out of anyone at the Center, not because she wasn't present, but because she was so private. Always preferred to stick with a few other friends from the coast and keep to herself.

When it comes to strategy, though, she's suddenly engaged - not in the bubbly, animated way that Jewel is, somehow, when planning a series of murders, but in an interested and businesslike sort of participation.

"The girl is tough, too, and it looks like they're staying together," Marcus adds. "Take a look."

I follow his line of sight to a table near the back, where the pair from District 3 are eating at the same table, apparently exchanging words.

"Anything else?" Jewel asks probingly. "Do we know their names, what weapons they've been using?"

"The guy is Dion," Renata volunteers.

I give her a surprised glance - I hadn't been aware that she had been paying attention to anyone beyond the trainee districts. It's easy to forget that she's listening when she's so quiet.

"The girl is Bridge-something. Bridger. Bridge. One of those," I add, apparently not as good as Renata is at remembering names. "She and the partner - Dion, the big one - were arguing about like… politics or something in the chariot in front of us last night. I think she's a little younger than he is."

I can pay attention too.

Jewel smiles at me. "Excellent! Wow, thank god we've got you guys."

I smile back. Renata is back to rolling her eyes at me, but a little less angrily and a little more in affectionate exasperation.

"The guy from Ten freaks me out," I volunteer, prodding the conversation to continue.

He's not exactly huge, but he's well-built enough, doesn't have any traditional outer district markers of hunger growing up, and he stares unapologetically - a lot, I've begun to notice, at Jewel. He's making friends as well - with a smaller boy from District 8, who seems to look up to him a lot. Everyone else seems a little creeped out by him, including his district partner, who has distanced herself from him substantially.

"Is he the stare-y one?" Jewel asks with a laugh. "I get it. Guy has no concept of personal space, kept getting a bit too close to my ass in the elevator."

"I don't like him," Manari says. "I know men like that."

"Do you now," I say, surprised to hear him speak - come to think of it, Cora has also been suspiciously silent throughout the discussion.

He exhales sharply through his nose, sort of a dismissive huff, and resumes eating.

"I agree," Marcus adds, jumping in to fill the silence. "Alliance-building in non-trainee districts is unsettling. We've got the pair from Three, the Eight guy and the Ten guy - anyone else?"

"Districts Six and Seven seemed friendly during the chariots," Renata suggests. "Not sure about all of them, though - I've only seen the two girls around together."

"The Seven girl is pretty twiggy," I say dismissively.

"Twiggy means fast, sometimes. If she runs, it'll be hard catching up with her," Renata argues.

"I agree," Jewel says, beaming her spotlight-smile on Renata, who almost smiles back - then catches herself. "Especially with an ally - if it's an interesting relationship, we can't count on the Gamemakers to take her out when she gets boring hiding in the trees."

"That _is_ what the Sevens are good at," I concede. "The Seven boy is someone to take out early - he looks strong, one of those Sevens who can handle an axe."

"Then he should be the first we go for - beat him to the weapons, get him out of the running before he gets his hands on something good," Marcus suggests.

"Doesn't seem to be making friends," Renata says, nodding her head in the direction of the District 7 guy, who is sitting alone at a table, looking very surly.

"Then we won't have to worry about vengeful-type allies," I respond with a shrug.

"There are some from the outer districts together - the pair from Eleven," Jewel suggests, looking around as if to prompt further discussion.

"Both are kinda soft around the edges," I say, skeptical. They don't exactly look like the kind of pair that'll present any long term challenge - both fairly tall, but with no apparent musculature. The girl has been pretty active - working over the instructor at the knife work station - while her partner is mostly hanging to the side.

"Okay, so not our first targets," Jewel agrees.

She pauses, apparently just noticing that Cora is not participating at all and appears to be tapping two pieces of silverware together with increasingly rapid metal clicking noises.

"You alright, Cora?" she asks hesitantly, seemingly not sure whether her usual affect will be effective in this context or whether she ought to soften her tone to match more, say, Marcus'.

"Oh!" Cora says suddenly. "Sorry. I don't like sitting. I'm not hungry. Sorry."

Marcus nudges her - again, almost imperceptibly, and her face changes a little. "I'm down for the plan, whatever the plan is."

Renata and Jewel nod a little dubiously. I can feel myself doing the same thing.

"I have… _also_ noticed things," she announces, looking a little awkward as she realizes that she is the center of attention. "The guy from District Seven is sick. We were talking about him, yeah?"

"What do you mean?" Marcus asks - taking her seriously, I notice, a lot more quickly than anyone else at the table.

"Well, I've been watching him. He's sweating. It's not hot here," she explains, talking more to Marcus than the rest of us.

We turn a little too quickly to look at him again, and he notices our attention, slams down his spoon, and stalks haltingly out of the room, to the corridor where the restrooms are located. But not before we can see the sheen of perspiration on his face.

"Real subtle, you guys," Jewel sighs.

"It's true, though, you saw!" Cora says insistently, her voice ticking up in pitch slightly.

"What does it tell you?" Marcus asks her, leveling his eyes with hers - she takes a deep breath, and her face changes again.

"I think he's in withdrawal from something," she says evenly. "He'll move very fast during the bloodbath. Probably not the way we would expect, more erratic."

"More or less dangerous?" Jewel asks, looking intrigued.

"Depends. Looking at how bad off he is, he's got a shot at dying on his own without… whatever his thing is… in the arena. But in the mean time, he'll be very unpredictable. Likely to come after us on his own. Dangerous-ly reckless. For everyone else and him."

"And… you know this because…" I say slowly, trailing off and raising an eyebrow.

"Medicine!" she says. "I'm good at medicine… things. Health. Care. First aid?"

Manari looks just as skeptical as I feel - which is a new emotional range for him, in a long line of scowls of varying depth.

"That's actually a great segue," Jewel interrupts - Cora gives her a wide-eyed look of gratitude that she definitely doesn't miss. "Any special skills, you guys?"

"Renata and I could probably catch our own food, if there's water," I volunteer.

Renata snorts. "Angel has an exaggeration problem. That's assuming a lot of luck."

"I can play piano," Marcus deadpans, and Jewel and I both lose it.

"Oh god," Jewel says, wiping a tear out of her eye, smudging her makeup a little. "Of course you fucking can."

"So we're all pretty hopeless without like, supplies," I suggest.

"Yeah. Pretty hopeless," Renata says, shrugging.

"Then I guess we better win the bloodbath!" Jewel concludes with a cheshire-cat grin.

Manari stands wordlessly and steps away from the table, abandoning his empty plate. "Great plan, you're all very smart," he says, his tone entirely flat and devoid of affect. "We should actually do something, now."

"Anyone up for archery?" Marcus asks mildly.

"Lead the way," I say - and I can't help but wear a smile just as wide as Jewel's.

This is going to be a good year for the trainees. A weird year, maybe - but a good one.

x

 _Unless training is something that's really interesting for y'all to read, I think I'm just gonna do some snapshots from the few days the tributes have at this phase and then try to power through some interviews. I'm mostly writing for my own whims at this point, but if y'all have whims, I'm ... forreal interested._


	27. Training Day 2

Training Day 2

x

Pain

comes to those who do not ask

for it. I am asking. I am asking.

'Forest Walking', Venetta Octavia

x

Yuna Watanabe, District 6

"Ooh, Yuna, don't turn around, he's looking at you," Fidan whispers, leaning in close enough to tickle my ear with the strands of hair that frame her face.

"Who?" I demand, instantly on my guard.

Every muscle in my body – not too many of them, but I have some – is tense. I've felt eyes on my skin sporadically throughout the day, and though Fidan seems very genuinely friendly, her company hasn't been enough to distract me from my unease.

"Fidan," I repeat. "Who."

She shrugs. "I don't know his name. The pretty one."

"A _Career_?"

It's regrettable, but it kind of goes without saying that if you're talking about unnaturally attractive men in this year's Games, if you're not talking about Fidan's district partner Oliver - who she'd definitely name, and who has shown less than zero interest in either of us - you're talking about the Careers.

District 1 has a huge guy, who has at least a foot on me in terms of height and could probably break me in half if so inclined. I swear, I haven't heard him say a word – couldn't tell you what his voice sounded like if you held a gun to my head. He has this constant deadpan, and then someone from any other district will speak within hearing range and he _scowls_ like he's personally offended.

But, of course, he's beautiful. Chiseled features, strong jaw, _very_ strong brow. Glossy brown skin that just makes you want to run a hand over it because it can't be _that_ perfect, no one looks like that. Right up my alley if it weren't for the murder vibe.

"Yeah," she verifies. "A Career. He keeps looking at you."

"Fuck," I whisper. "Which _one_?"

"I already told you, the pretty one. You can turn around and look – no, he's talking to someone now, the girl with all the muscles."

If he's talking to someone, he's not the District 1 guy, which is good, I guess.

"I'm gonna need more than a value judgment on his attractiveness, Fidan," I sigh.

"Well, he looks – kind of like you," she says, shrugging. "Except, bigger. Stronger. Could definitely kill you. Not really like you at all. But a little around the cheekbones."

So he's the one from District 2. Those are the eyes I've been feeling. Strange. I would have thought it was the disconcerting boy from District 10, maybe, or one of the smaller girls.

"Is it a good thing, do you think, to have the Careers paying attention to you during training?" I muse.

"Not Careers, just this one. The rest really don't care about us. Watch them – they're in a world of their own," Fidan replies, gesturing my attention over to the table where the Careers have settled down for lunch.

The boy from District 1 catches my eye immediately, seated like a monolith at the head of the table – I swear I see him crack a smile as his district partner whispers something to him, but it lasts only a fraction of a second. The Careers are all together, but in fairly distinct pairs, like they've got walls separating them by district of origin.

The boy from District 4 is talking animatedly, while the blonde girl from District 2 pays him rapt attention and her district partner seems to be picking at his plate with complete distraction.

"Yeah, they've got their own thing going on," I agree. "Really, you think the District Two boy is the prettiest?"

"Are you looking to fight me on this, because I'll fight you on this," Fidan laughs. "Wait until he looks up. It's something about the eyes. And I'm a sucker for guys with good eyelashes."

"He'll probably be the one that kills us both," I say glumly. "That's the only reason he'd be looking at me. Thinks I'm an easy target."

"Don't talk like that," Fidan chides. "You're not winning anything if you think that way."

"I'm not winning anything, period, Fidan."

"Not with that attitude you're not!"

She's smart, but it's easy to forget how clever she can be when she's so utterly, _gratingly_ cheery all the goddamn time. And totally lacks a filter – Fidan's emotions come bubbling through completely unabridged. There's something genuine about her.

Genuine, but occasionally pretty irritating.

I stifle a sigh of defeat.

"Yeah, okay, sure. What's our best case scenario, do you think?"

"He walks over here right now and tells me I'm beautiful, swears to protect me with his life, and gives me all the food on his plate that he's not eating for some reason. We shouldn't have left the tables so fast; maybe they would have given us more to eat. "

Fidan is totally fixated on food – I get the sense that there have been moments of her life where she hasn't gotten enough of it. Thinking too hard about how different our lives have been makes my stomach ache in what might be either sympathy or guilt.

"Unrealistic, but okay," I say, "though that's my fault, I guess – best case scenario is always unrealistic. Good start. Second best."

"He's sizing you up to ask you to join their alliance." She shrugs. "I guess that depends on what you mean by second best, but it's not impossible. Careers have let district kids in before. Usually die, though."

Well, that's hardly a pleasant prospect, but maybe a hair better than being placed on a to-kill list.

"I think you're all the ally I need," I tell Fidan.

She beams. "I'm glad. It's cool, how you know about medicine and stuff. My mentor's really proud of me for having introduced myself to you so fast."

'Proud' wasn't really the word for the way my mentor, An, reacted when I told her I'd allied with a fifteen year old girl whose only marketable skill is climbing trees. 'Resigned to my fate' might be the better description. An is doing double-duty trying to help me and Lucas, given she's our only victor – but Lucas, at least, she's treating as a lost cause.

I still have the opportunity to disappoint her, because she has vague expectations of my potential. Lucas, well – I get the sense she's measuring him for his coffin in his sleep. He's just too young. Too simple.

Her only comment on my alliance, though, was telling a story about the way she won. No allies, of course. Poisoned the mountain stream that was the Career's main source of drinking water, killing three and incapacitating the others while she slit their throats. Poison is a good weapon for a woman, she keeps reminding me.

"They didn't think I was a threat, because I was so small and my score was so low," she'll say, proudly.

Yeah, cool – I'm not that small, not that nonthreatening, and _hopefully_ not going to score a three. I need an ally to keep me from losing my mind, because unlike her, I don't plan to win by skulking around and poisoning half the arena. Fidan is fast and so am I – as long as we can just get away from the Cornucopia during the confusion of the bloodbath, we can play it by ear from there.

As is exemplified by our efforts over the half-hour since we left the lunch tables, during which we've been busily sorting through leaves and berries at the plant station, we're not totally lacking in skills. Fidan is masterful when it comes to both scientific names and what you can and cannot eat, and I'm well-studied enough to know which sorts of plants have medicinal properties that contribute to the manufacture of pharmaceuticals. From there, as long as Fidan can give me the genus and species, I figure I can make just about anything we'll need.

Even a couple of poisons, though nothing like what An did in her Games. Just something to smear on a dagger or even a sharp rock to make it a decent weapon.

We don't _not_ have a chance, is all I'm saying.

Maybe the boy from District 2 knows that?

I feel his gaze again, tingling and pinching at the nape of my neck, and this time, I'm irritated – I look up in time to meet his eyes with a glare. He's still at the table with the Careers, food still virtually untouched. He doesn't seem even a little bit cowed by my response, which probably shouldn't surprise me.

"What's this called?" I ask Fidan, showing her a familiar-looking bright green vine.

"Kudzu," she says. "You can eat the roots and flowers – oh, the scientific name is Pueraria lobata. There are southern parts of District 7 where it grows so thick on the trees you can't see the trunks. There's a whole business in using the fibers to make clothing, but the stem is so strong that you could use it for a lot of things."

She tugs on the little strip of vegetation, demonstrating that it does not break easily. "Wait, I bet you could garrote someone with it!"

"That's… an interesting idea. Puerarin is also a component of some headache drugs, I think – that's useful." I smile thinly and she smiles back. Go team!

The District 2 boy is still looking when I glance back up, and I've got the attention of the girl from District 2, as well. This compounds my discomfort with the entire situation.

I loop a simple noose, learned yesterday at the knot-tying station when I met Fidan, with the vine.

"Hey," I say, miming a quick death by hanging as she looks on in horror. "At least they won't take us alive."

x

Cora Davis, District 2

"Sword? Classic," Angel comments as he slices apart the beef beneath thick brown gravy that we've all been served alongside a pile of mashed potatoes and a variety of colorful vegetables. "I'm a ranged weapons kind of guy myself."

"Yeah," Marcus says. "I think Cora and I are both swordspeople."

He looks at me questioningly for verification.

"You think that because you fought me with a sword one time," I point out. "I'd take a fight without a blade over a fight with a blade any day."

"Staff, bludgeon, mace?" Angel suggests.

"I don't really specialize." I shrug.

Maybe I could have answered that better, sounded a little edgier or less properly-hinged, but saying something like 'bare hands' would be so disingenuous. Even if it's true. Blades complicate things - they make other people better fighters, but not so much me. Hand-to-hand is as good as I get. I'd rather my opponent be out of their comfort zone and I in mine.

And I like to feel it as I fight. Maybe I should have said something like that? Probably not. Too forced. I didn't think I'd be this hesitant about how best to play my character after years of Claudia's coaching, but I've been nervous and high-strung ever since the chariots.

"Jewel, how about you - weapon of choice?" Angel asks, looking down the table at the pair from District 1. "You strike me as a knife or dagger kind of girl, am I wrong?"

"Couldn't be more wrong," she laughs. "Light javelin or sword would be the dream. But Manari can tell you, I'm _flexible_."

I follow the conversation with my eyes – Manari looks moderately annoyed, though that's pretty much his default expression.

"And you, Manari?" Angel continues, the teeth in his grin making it very clear that he caught Jewel's innuendo.

"Knife," Manari says, resuming his lunch.

"…really," Angel replies skeptically, looking all six-and-a-half feet of him up and down. "That seems _super_ likely."

"Got nothing to overcompensate for," Manari says without looking up.

Jewel loses it – starts cracking up – did he just make a joke?

No one really knows what to think of the pair from District 1. They're an even odder couple than me and Marcus, for sure – at the same time, they give off this sense of being old friends, with in-jokes that only they can comprehend. I wonder how much of that appearance is grounded in reality.

Since we started training in District 2, Marcus and I, along with every other trainee in the Center, have been coached on how to behave within the standard trainee alliance. There's a lot of individual instruction, especially as the field starts getting winnowed down – hour-long sessions with Claudia or Aaron about how to behave, how to size other tributes up, how to present oneself, how to interact, even how to eat. Somehow I'm still shaky on this.

I'm just supposed to be convincing them that I am trustworthy but, as Claudia puts it, 'a little crazy'.

"Just don't do that thing where you shut down and pretend to be normal but actually become the most boring human being in existence," Claudia has always told me. "They need footage to cut back to when you fight – something that explains the way you behave. The rest of the trainees need to be expecting it, or else they'll be shocked. Set the stage."

So, I'm basically just doing me, except that turns out to be really difficult and confusing and I already fucked yesterday up. We're supposed to do what we need to do in order to keep in shape, in fighting form for the session with the Gamemakers, maybe show off a little ("but not too much," Aaron reminded Marcus sharply just before we left. "keep some secrets.") and generally follow our training and set up our personas before the interview, all while gathering whatever knowledge we can about anyone who seems to be competition.

Angel has been keeping us all occupied on this, the second day, with what he calls 'trust exercises', though it just seems to be getting-to-know-you type questions. They clearly serve some sort of tactical purpose for him – asking what weapons we favor, past arenas we found most interesting, what our parents do.

Manari has never answered a question with more than one word – when he does speak in sentences, it's to make subtle (or not-so-subtle) jabs at Angel, which Jewel finds hilarious.

I haven't learned a lot about Renata – she's built, and seems bright. Favors a heavy spear, likes any arena that includes a sizeable body of water, her mother is retired and her father works in a hatchery. All I've really noticed beyond that is that she doesn't have the same veiled ferocity to her as Jewel does.

Center-trained tributes, particularly women, tend to give me this impression of brutality stifled beneath professionalism. Jewel is textbook – her mannerisms are those of twenty other girls who made it to the final stage along with me. Like she's just itching to sink her dangerously sharp, manicured nails into your esophagus – but she'd do it with her pinky extended, and she's holding off until you're in a situation where she'd be able to keep blood out of her hair. Classic Career.

I've been criticized before for lacking that element of 'professionalism'.

Renata is missing the 'brutality'. What's she hiding, deep in the recesses of her mind?

The fact that there's no real bloodlust there, I imagine, fostered or natural.

District 4 has never taken training quite so seriously as District 1 and District 2. Sure, they have it – but not in the same regimented way. Part of the daily life, but not a real career path, focused on churning out perfect tributes.

I look at her again, rethink the way she talked about weapons, her past Games viewing habits, her parents.

She's never killed anyone before. That's it. One mystery solved.

I treat myself to a bite of the beef dressed with gravy, drawn through the small pile of mashed potatoes. The food here is excellent, so rich it makes my heart beat faster, has me itching to run until my legs are sore.

Angel and Jewel are engaged in some sort of banter that has Manari scowling even deeper than before, but Marcus is just as clocked out as I am, I observe.

He's barely touched his food, a few spoons of potatoes and some vegetables. I remember from the train that he doesn't eat meat, but he usually has a hell of an appetite to go with his diet, which is fair given he's got about fifty pounds of muscle on me.

There's no real way to guess at what's on his mind until I follow his gaze to the plant identification station, where two girls are talking – one glancing nervously back at him every few seconds.

He registers that I'm paying attention to him, but doesn't move.

"What do you think?" he asks me.

"Of what?"

"The girl, Yuna. The older one."

"You're freaking her out," I tell him. "What with the staring and all."

He shrugs. "Fair. What do you see when you look at her, though? Just help me out, here, give me an unbiased view."

I look at him sideways, but play along.

"Well, she's tall for the districts. Probably sort of wealthy, professional parents. She tells the other girl what to do, the younger one – and she does it. So if she's not physically powerful - and she's not - she's smart. Pretty, in a very District 6 way."

I pause. "Oh, District 6. That's you."

"I've never been," he says softly. "I was born in District 2."

" _Oh_ ," I say again. "Do you want to… talk to her? It might freak her out even more than we're already freaking her out, look."

She's staring determinedly at a plant, though her eyes flicker back up every few seconds and find us still discussing her. I see a lot of fear in the way she's looking at us – I think it's less us as people, since we're a lot less physically intimidating than, say, Manari – than what District 2 tributes continue to represent.

That is, scary people.

Marcus looks conflicted, raking his fingers through his hair - which somehow only leaves it more perfectly tousled than before.

"I don't know," he says, finally. "It's kind of a unique opportunity, right?"

I raise my hands, palms-up, in mock surrender. "Man, I'm not in your head, but it seems to me you've got nothing good to get out of this. Like, what do you think you'd learn? What's she going to say? There's literally nothing for you to gain in this context, and it's a really high-stakes time to be letting some inner turmoil or whatever be the thing that causes you to make a mistake."

"…okay, I get what you're saying, it's poorly thought out," he concedes. "But maybe we'd have something in common, or – you're right, this sounds really stupid out loud. I overthink things."

I pat him on the back. It's a very nice back. "Well, you can count on me to make pretty much any idea sound stupid."

His brow furrows as he looks me in the eyes, but says nothing. Eye contact a little too long. I'm the one who breaks it, feeling antsy and back to chewing on the inside of my cheek.

"You're not stupi-… you okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, I just don't like sitting still like this," I tell him.

"We can go, then," he says. "Hey, Angel, you and Renata want to clean up a bit and go to the knifework station with us?"

Angel is still trying, somewhat unsuccessfully, to keep Jewel's attention away from Manari – who is just as standoffishly disaffected as ever.

"Sure, Marcus," Angel says reluctantly. "Have you seen the set of kukris they have? Pretty sweet, gotta say. Some really gorgeous blades."

He talks _a lot_. Fond of Marcus, more fond of Jewel. Skeptical of me.

There's a knot of cold discomfort that's been growing in my chest ever since we sat down for lunch, and it's begging to be let out, ripped out, all over the floor. There's no sunlight in the Training Center in the Capitol, no floor-to-ceiling windows. Just cold air, fluorescent lights. I want to tear my own hair out, just a little. Just to do something.

Marcus is noticing. I wonder if Angel and Renata are picking up on my discomfort – they're supposed to be. They're supposed to register something 'off'. It's what my mentors want. I was 'off' yesterday, but too fragile about it.

I remember Claudia's last words to me in particular before Marcus and I headed off in the morning – "be yourself!" – her knowing full well that 'myself' is not a normal person and 'myself' would much rather be popping a couple of pills right now instead of dealing with the hollow pit in my chest by biting my cheek as hard as I can, testing how quickly I can fill my mouth with blood.

The dummies for knifework are distinct from the setup for swordfighting, but all the bladed weapons are housed on the same towering rack.

Despite the blood running from the inside of my cheek and the distraction of choosing my own weapon, I almost smile as I see Marcus running his fingertips lovingly over the hilt of a beautiful katana.

He fights with this kind of incredible martial art that lends itself very well to that sort of a blade – it's incredibly impressive, very artistic, and definitely, 100%, what he's going to do for the Gamemakers when they score him.

And Claudia would probably march right into the Capitol's Training Center and murder him herself if he picked it up in front of all the other tributes, because _they're_ not supposed to know that. 'Keep a few secrets' and all.

I'm actually tremendously jealous at all the time and resources that have gone into his incredible form, because he's _guaranteed_ a ten, at least. Meanwhile, all my skill is in actual combat – in not falling down when I get hit hard. And how do I show that to the Gamemakers? I've got no pretty sword-dance.

All I've got's a mouthful of blood and a bad shake that's making it hard to even grip the simple dagger I take from the rack. I've been cooped up for hours.

In my one-on-ones with Claudia, ever since the beginning, she's been telling me I can't get too worked up over my score. That they're not picking me for a score; they're picking me for a victor. Reassuring me, preparing me – an eight would be respectable, a nine a bit of a reach with my form. Shoot for an eight; don't worry about it too much.

I don't _want_ to throw up my hands and settle for an eight. That feels like I'm wasting all the years they put into me, while Marcus listened and paid attention and learned things correctly and I was just trusting I'd be strong enough without that form and those lessons – god, I'm a fucking _idiot_.

Abruptly, I realize I'm alone at the weapons rack – I must have been staring contemplatively at my dagger for a few minutes.

Marcus is practicing the most simplistic drill I've literally ever seen him do – a straightforward disarming motion followed by a straight-down eviscerating slash, curved inward to dislodge the viscera for a debilitating injury, finished off with a straight jab to the heart. It's one of the first drill sequences you learn; because the motions are important for any type of dagger, and you have to learn how to get close to use them.

I sigh. He makes it look elegant – that kind of swordsmanship is impossible to obfuscate. Angel is watching him surreptitiously as he executes a similar drill with his own dummy, not very good at hiding how impressed he is. Everything Marcus does is beautiful. And he's too well-intentioned to hate him for it.

Feeling very sorry for myself, I make my way to a spare dummy, adopt an almost-correct fighting stance, and prepare to chop it to bits about as gracefully as I would a chicken cutlet.

I'm messy, but I get the job done. It feels good to finally stress my muscles to their utmost – god, I can feel again, I can feel something other than the heat in my mouth and the aching cold pit in my chest. The ballistics gel used in the construction of the knifework dummies mimics the 'feel' of flesh almost perfectly, though the skin isn't quite right, tears away a little too easily. I feel it again, and again, and again -

"You okay, Cora?" Marcus asks for the second time this afternoon, shaking me back into the present with the note of genuine concern in his voice as he approaches me from the side – like a trainer approaching a spooked horse.

It's irritating – I'm not an animal, just a drug addict.

"Yeah," I say, more breathless than I realized.

"Look, complete respect, but – I think it's dead," he says gently.

The dummy hangs completely in tatters, the entire lower body shredded into strips of amber gel along the sloping contours of the ribcage. The replica bone is splintered in most places, ripped clean out in others.

My hands aren't shaking any more.

"Oh. Very true," I say brightly.

He laughs – still soft and kind – like I've made a clever joke.

"You've got blood on your mouth," Marcus adds, nonchalant, as he returns the knife he'd been using in favor of a larger model.

I tilt my head questioningly.

"Riiight … here," he says, brushing the corner of my lower lip with his thumb and returning to a fresh dummy.

"Ah," I say, more to myself than anyone, checking my reflection in one of the mirrored walls. Where my teeth touch, red from the torn up inside of my cheek has welled up, scarlet and slightly chilling.

I flash Angel a bloody smile and get back to work.

x

 _As I was getting miserably bored with reapings I wrote ahead a bit, particularly with training and some of the interviews - this marks the last of my 'I'm bored, better write a training scene' backlog._

 _There's still one more day of training left, so I'll probably just hammer that out in D10 girl and D3 guy (Charlotte and Dion) unless there's anyone y'all'd want to hear from more._


	28. Training Day 3

_Note: now that I'm actually writing these fully in real time I live in constant fear that the quality of my writing has deteriorated over the last year spent mixing solvents in a marine biology lab. It's definitely a possibility. I'll try to update once or twice every weekend, so stay tuned for that!_

x

Training Day 3

x

I want to convey the afternoon setting  
the water torture of the sink;  
drip by drip, the clock and its ticking,  
and too much time left now to think.

'Aftermath', Lang Leav

x

Charlotte Reed, District 10

The best part of being in the Capitol has been the fruits. I have never in my life seen – let alone eaten - so many different kinds of fruits. This must be how it is all the time in District 11. Thinking about it makes me jealous for a few seconds before I remember that's a sin and put a stop to it real quick.

The worst part of being here is everything else. I still cry every night, alone in my room, in fear and sadness and exhaustion and loneliness. While the District 10 mentor, Timothy, is at least halfway putting on an act, not outright saying I have no chance, well… I'm the youngest tribute in the arena. He doesn't have to put words to it. I know I'm headed straight for my death. It doesn't matter what he does, he might as well hedge his bets and avoid getting to know me too well.

You don't name a lamb being born backwards. Timothy has barely bothered to learn my name, at least, it feels.

I'm torn between never wanting to get out of my soft bed and leave the room, let alone the training center, and wishing to God that I could just die and get it over with. Because the pain of being here, every second, being trapped like a rat in a glue trap, is so constant and intense and awful. The fruits are so beautiful, but they taste like ashes in my mouth when I remember why I get to eat such nice things and wear such nice clothes. Same way you fatten up a pig to kill it.

I wonder if the pigs know. They seem to just enjoy the extra food and attention, all the way up until they get stuck and killed. I wish I could be like that, put the fear out of my brain and stop crying so much all the time. God loves the meek, but all these tears, all this terror, it's just too much to ask anyone to bear.

Then there's my district partner, Samil, who – I just don't _get_ it, I've never done anything to him, never met him before in my life, but he just _hates_ me so much. Just glares at me like I've done something to annoy him by … all I do is eat and cry, so maybe he takes that personally, or something.

It's messed up and not fair, I'd do _anything_ for an ally who actually talked to me and was familiar or even just … not always making thinly-veiled jabs at me over dinner with Timothy and the escort. The little boy from 6, Lucas, at least has a strong partner. Even if Yuna doesn't stick with him during training, I bet she's real nice to him when they're having meals. She lets him sit with her and her ally from District 7, Fidan. They're nice.

Yesterday I tried to talk to Lucas, on account of us both being small and young, but he seemed real uncomfortable with it. Not in the mean way that Samil makes any conversation I try to start so uncomfortable that I want to stop talking on account of feeling so stupid and small, but just like … Lucas didn't want to be talking to anyone, let alone someone he didn't know. I felt bad for bothering him at the edible plants station and quickly tried to excuse myself, but then he started trying to apologize for being weird and that made it even worse.

It's early morning, and I'm up almost half an hour before we need to be back at the training center for our last day. Just that phrase – our last day – makes my stomach feel twisted up and heavy. I don't want to leave my room too soon and run into Samil, but I also don't want to just hide in here alone, like a baby.

Even though Samil and Timothy don't really get along – Timothy seems kind of taken aback by how _mean_ he is – our mentor is still trying to help him, trying to coach him into some direction more productive than making mean comments about me and how much I cry or how much I eat. It doesn't really work, because Samil just wants to do his own thing. He's big and strong, so I guess he thinks he can do it all on his own. He probably doesn't know what a bad sin it is to be prideful.

After the first day, he's sort of started hanging out with the boy from District 8, but he's still pretty mean to Damask. Like, just barely nice enough to lead the boy on and make him think Samil is his friend. It's not good – he's lying to Damask, laughs at him behind his back the same way he laughs at me to my face.

Damask is old enough to make his own choices, obviously, but I don't think it's gonna end well for him, hanging out with Samil. They train together and eat lunch together, mostly, but it looks like Damask is sort of tagging along, somehow the odd one out in a _pair_ , which shouldn't be possible.

But anything horrible is possible with Samil. It's wrong to hate, that's in the bible, but if I was allowed to hate someone… I'd probably pick him, even before anyone from the Capitol. At least they've all been nice to me, nicer than anyone I've met in my whole life. And I'm clean and I smell good and I get to eat so much good food, so many fruits.

They make it easy to forgive them, like He says we should do. Forgive the people who hurt us. It's His will, anyway, they're just acting it out. I shouldn't be crying so much, but I can't fully forgive yet. I'll get there. I'll be good by the time I die, I'm sure of it. I'm going to heaven and I'll never have to look at Samil's stupid face ever again.

That was mean. That was bad. I don't mean that. I do a little bit. He's just so hard to forgive. He's so mean.

Maybe he's left already and I can just go to the center on my own, like I've been doing the last couple days. I feel so stupid, sneaking around in my own district's quarters, but I just don't want to have to talk to him and I don't want to be alone anymore.

Today I'll talk to Andre, who is also young, from District 9, or maybe Jean, Damask's district partner. She's also young and seems sad. I just want to talk to someone. I know none of us have any chance, it would be stupid to try to ally and just get our hopes up, clump together and make us easier to be killed all at once.

It might be better, knowing I had a friend who would be … a witness, I guess. But there are gonna be millions of witnesses watching anyway. I'm not sared about feeling alone. God willing, it'll be fast and painless. Hopefully one of the trainees, not a mutt or something awful that might be slow and _hurt_ and – I'm scaring myself, I don't want to think about this.

I should just go to training. I can ignore Samil if I see him, but I don't want to get stuck in the elevator with him. He's big and scary and the way he talks about women is frightening. I used to think my mama was being overprotective with the way she warned me off men – after all, I had my older brothers, Colin and Micah, and they had both been taught never to raise a hand to a woman, even if Colin sometimes thought I was dumb. And little Toby would never hurt a fly.

My family, who live so well by God's law and what they teach us in church, sheltered me from the evil way some men live, the way they look at women – like the little ones are just dumb and useless and the pretty ones, like the trainees, need to be taught a lesson. I'm not stupid, I can see how Samil is looking at the pretty trainee girls, like a sheepdog looks at a slice of meat. He thinks I'm stupid but I'm not.

Sometimes it's smart to be afraid of someone. I'm smart.

Finally, my discomfort with being stuck in my room outweighs my nervousness at leaving, and I poke my head out into the hall. It's dark and empty – not even Timothy is about.

I shuffle out, still feeling nervous and on edge. I twist a strand of my hair in my fingers as I half-walk half-creep through the corridors and towards the elevator. I say a silent prayer that it will be empty as I press the button – knowing at least I won't see Samil, he's already gone.

The doors open. It's not empty. I can feel my eyes go wide.

It's the towering boy and the beautiful girl from District 1, alone – they seem to be mid-conversation, stopped abruptly by my entrance.

Already I'm stuttering out apologies for interrupting, trying to back away and let the doors close, but the girl smiles at me –

"Oh no, don't worry! You're fine! We just didn't think anyone else would be running so late."

Gingerly, I step back into the well-lit elevator, keeping my eyes trained on the floor.

"My name is Jewel! This is Manari," the girl announces, still sounding from her voice like she's smiling. "You're District 10, right? Charlotte?"

"How do you know my name?" I ask cautiously.

"Shouldn't we be trying to learn each others' names?" Jewel questions right back.

I don't want to tell them that I wouldn't think trainee districts would want to know anything about any district kids, except where the soft bits were so they could stab us. So I just shrug, and sort of look up. Not high enough to meet the eyes of her tall, silent partner. Just enough to maybe see her chin and her mouth.

"So was I right? Charlotte?" Jewel presses.

I just nod.

"How about that partner of yours, hm? Leaving you to catch the elevator alone. Kind of a dick move."

Now I meet her eyes, more out of surprise at the profanity and that she knows about Samil than anything.

"Sorry, I need to watch my mouth sometimes," Jewel laughs.

She has a beautiful, throaty laugh. It sounds very genuine. I can't help but think how pretty she looks – she's so good at painting her face, there are sparkles on her eyelids and her teeth are unbelievably white and clean.

"No, it's okay. He…" I try to think of a way to phrase it so Timothy wouldn't get mad at me for giving too much away. "He's got his own ally and he doesn't like me very much. It's fine."

The elevator has stopped, and Jewel's partner seems to want to leave – Jewel insistently keeps pace with me as we exit, though.

"Well, that sounds like his loss," she says. Her eyes seem kind and honest.

I don't think she is trying to ally with me. In fact, I'm almost sure she just wants to learn more about Samil if she can. He's the scary one, not me. But when she's talking to me, she's so good at it, I can almost pretend she's my friend for real.

"Have you ever killed anyone?" I feel myself ask her, suddenly, like if I spit the words out fast enough she'll be honest.

She pauses for a second, clearly not having expected that. Her partner stops, too.

"Yes," she says slowly.

"Was it fast?" I ask again, realizing how scared I am of how much it's going to hurt, for how long.

She wanted something from me, so I want something from her.

"It can be," she says, slowly, again, like she's being careful about how much she says.

"I just don't want it to hurt," I tell her. "I'm scared it will hurt."

Jewel seems stumped by what to say next, but I realize her partner, who hasn't yet said a word to me, is still with us.

"Charlotte, right?" He says.

It's the first time I have heard his voice. It's not as low and rumbly as I expected – just a voice. Not like, gentle, like a rancher talking to his flock, but not mean either. Not as sharp-edged as Samil's, which is what I was afraid of.

"No one here wants to hurt you – "

"God doesn't like it when you lie."

I have no idea where this is coming from – frustration I guess, from not having anyone to talk to, from these _trainees_ being the first people who've really treated me like a person in days, and they're the ones who want to _kill_ me.

"I'm… I'm sorry, I'm just scared. I know what's coming, okay? I'm not stupid."

He pauses for a moment – I'm actually looking him in the eyes now, sort of fiercely, I think. Or maybe I'm just petulant, like Colin always called me.

"That's okay," he says. "There's not much Jewel and I can do for you, I don't think, but you should know that it's okay to be afraid. We have fear and uncertainty too."

"I'm a _little_ afraid of what Octavion will do to us when we're late to training," Jewel says, clearly trying to break the low mood with some humor.

Her partner – Manari, I remember – rolls his eyes just slightly. "I've had quite enough of our mentors, him included."

"My mentor doesn't like me much," I say.

It sort of feels good to have someone to just say things to. I've been so lonely these last few days. I'd almost forgotten I could talk to people and have it feel like a relief rather than something awful and uncomfortable.

"Again," Jewel says. "His loss."

She eyes Manari meaningfully, and I can see some kind of unspoken communication pass between them.

"Has Samil been especially mean to you?" Jewel asks.

I remember the way he looks at her, and I'm suddenly gripped with the need to help her, somehow – she must underestimate him, being from the outer districts, but she shouldn't. He's scary. He'll hurt her if he has the chance. She's nice. She doesn't deserve that. He doesn't deserve my loyalty.

"You have to look out for him," I tell her. "He got Peacekeeper training. He's been trying to keep that quiet. But he'll do it for the Gamemakers and get a good score, and he'll hurt you bad if you don't get him first."

Jewel looks a little taken aback, but she also smiles at me.

"Thank you for telling me that, Charlotte. I hope he hasn't been too cruel to you."

"I was hoping … this morning I was thinking that I hoped one of you trainees would … you know, if I have to die. I figure you guys are … experts, right?" I look at Manari specifically. "I'm not so scared of dying, but hurting…"

"So fast you won't even see it," he tells me. "That's how they teach us. You won't even have to see the blade."

He seems serious. Of course, he always seems serious. But I think I trust him.

"Promise?" I say.

"To the extent that I can promise you anything," he says, sounding almost apologetic. "Thank you for telling Jewel what you did."

I can already feel the guilt rising in my chest for that – Timothy would be so mad at me if he knew. But I realize that, at the place in the hall where Jewel stopped us, there are none of the black cameras in the ceiling close enough to pick us up. Maybe he hasn't seen. The two of them are very smart.

"Can you do one more thing for us?" Jewel asks.

"Uh, maybe," I say, not wanting to mess up everything or promise more than I can deliver.

But also deeply wanting her to like me, no matter how bad I know that is.

"Can you act the same as before we talked? I don't want Samil to use this as an opportunity to hold something against you, and I don't want other tributes to get mad at you for being nice to us. I know most of the districts don't have a lot of warm fuzzy feelings for District 1."

"Oh, okay – you're right, that's … okay," I say, not really knowing what I expected them to ask of me.

Maybe a little piece of me hoped this was actually an offer of friendship, but I understand how things work – I got something I wanted from them, and they got something they wanted from me. And they don't seem evil, or even mean.

Jewel smiles – Manari just sort of nods, already adjusting back to his stoic non-expression.

"Good luck," Jewel tells me.

"You be careful around that boy, too," Manari adds. "The more I know about him the less I like him."

That makes me smile for real. Jewel is so small. I can't help but worry that if it came down to her and Samil, she would lose. But Manari is big and strong and I'm sure even Samil is scared of him. And Manari sees him for who he is. Samil won't win.

Jewel checks her watch – it looks fancy, like it's probably a piece straight from District 1. Maybe her token.

"If you run in now, you won't be late – we'll hang back a minute or two, so we don't walk in together, okay?"

I nod. They don't need to tell me twice to leave. I don't want to be late to training and get yelled at.

"Thanks, I think," I say. "Good luck to you, too. Not that you need it."

Jewel smiles again. "Thank you, Charlotte. We can use all the luck we can get."

I set a good pace walking away, and I don't look back. That was weird. But sort of reassuring? I didn't realize how worried I was, about pain and dying slow. Worried, I think about what Samil might do to me if he got his hands on a knife. Knowing how he probably enjoys that, the sort of thing that makes a death slow and painful.

Maybe I shouldn't be just giving away luck like that. I've seen the anger and the hate in his eyes. Maybe I should be keeping all my luck for myself.

They won't need it nearly so much as I will.

x

Dion Cayes, District 3

The training instructor, an aggressive older-middle-aged man with some kind of temper on him, chewed out the pair from District 1 for a good five minutes for coming in late to training. The whole time, Bridget and I were exchanging uncomfortable looks – it being the last day of training, we have shit to do, and the trainees from 1 feeling like they can prance in whenever they want because they already have what they need to show the Gamemakers is just arrogance to the highest degree.

When that ridiculousness was finally over, I couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. Even though we didn't do anything wrong, the way Octavion barks makes everyone in a twenty-foot radius feel guilty as all hell no matter what they've been up to.

"Assholes," Bridget whispers under her breath as we break away from the loose group of tributes that has formed in the aftermath of the lecture. "Acting like they own the place."

"Yeah, fuck them," I sigh, but my heart's not really in it.

I feel good about swinging maybe an eight in the private session with the Gamemakers based on what Bridget and I got done yesterday at the weights station – I'm strong enough to impress them just on that. Guess all those hours overtime I worked ended up being good for something. Bridget, though, is feeling a lot more insecure about scoring.

Can't say I blame her. She's tough, and loyal to a fault, but she's a small and stringy kind of strong. The sort of person you'd expect to see not quite in a desk job, but not quite in a laborer capacity either – maybe a mechanic or quality control is where I'd put her if I were the guy assigning jobs.

She's smart, of course, but more a social kind of smart than the kind the allied pair from District 6 and District 7 seem to be banking on, spending all their time at edible plants, knot-tying, and the gymnastics station. Bridget was a dab hand on the bars, but that's not exactly the sort of thing that nets you a six or higher with the Gamemakers unless you're some kind of trained gymnast, which she is not.

So we're in this kind of awkward place where we both accept that we're good allies – we add something to the pairing, even if it's just another set of eyes and the confidence in someone from the same district – but she's probably gonna end up perceived to be bringing a lot less to the table than me, unless something changes over the next day.

I got no problem with it – I'm prepared to trust her, even if I think she's green behind the ears as an activist and a political thinker. She's from District 3, and I trust her intentions if not her expertise on most things.

But I can tell she's getting antsy, feeling like she's not 'doing enough', as she's complained more than once.

"Look, we haven't done much with weapons," I suggest – which is true, for the most part the presence of the trainees has deterred us from spending too much time at stations like spears and knifework. "What if we doubled down on something like that today?"

She grinds her teeth, watching as District 4 gravitates immediately to the spears, District 1 to knifework, and District 2, inexplicably, decides to try the survival skills station and seems to be learning about fire-starting.

"I can't stand the trainees, I'm sorry I'm being so obnoxious about it," she sighs. "Swords looks free – wanna try it out?"

"Sure, I'm game," I say, shrugging and following as she makes her way over.

Bridget seems both younger and older than her seventeen years – half the time she's bitingly realistic about things, usually her commentary on our competition, which is spot on. But half the time she's spouting what she doesn't seem to realize is inches away from Capitol propaganda – stuff about the Games themselves being necessary as a generality, the benevolence of our leaders, this idea that if we can just ask them loud enough or 'work the system' just right then we'll get exactly what we need.

And, I dunno, I guess it strikes me as a little absurd, that she can be so smart about some things but so completely wrong about other things.

I guess what's important is that I can trust her, and I know I can, completely – that much makes her a great ally. And it's good to have someone from home, to know I'll be able to sleep soundly even in the arena so long as I have her watching my back while I … hopefully don't snore.

Xenita has never complained about me snoring. I miss her, like I'd miss my heart if it was dug out of my chest. But I'm trying not to focus on that right now.

"Does this look like the right one?" Bridget asks, holding up a short sword.

I don't have any good adjectives to describe swords – this one seems light, not too long or too short, like the … handle? … fits in her hand.

"Seems like a good bet," I say, grabbing a funny-shaped sword with a long handle and a strangely flat blade. "How about this one?"

"How would you even swing that?" Bridget asks, looking the blade up and down. "That's such a long handle. It looks like it should be two handed. Do you want two handed?"

"Nah, I guess not. I need my other hand for… I dunno, something, probably."

She laughs. "How about this, for you?"

The one she picks out is almost exactly like hers, but bigger and a little beefier.

"Sweet," I say, holding it experimentally in my hand.

It feels weird to hold a sword. Like, it's not too heavy or anything – I have no issues swinging my arm around day in and day out – but it's a very different sort of object than anything I'm used to.

I can't help but think that I'd much rather fight someone barehanded, provided they were barehanded too – at least I know how to throw a good punch.

But it's not a great bet to put all my chips on 'no weapons in the arena', of course, so swords it is.

The instructor looks relieved to have tributes who actually need instruction – she's a big woman with greying hair who must have told us her name at some point, but I've long since forgotten it. She walks us through some basic moves, and gives Bridget a lighter sword after watching her hold her blade for a few seconds.

"This is barely more than a knife," Bridget complains.

"You're barely more than a twig," the instructor fires back, pointing out how Bridget's command over the weapon has improved substantially with a reduction in weight.

There's that iconic Bridget teeth-grind again, and she's back to walking through the drills along with me and the instructor.

After like fifteen minutes, we're allowed to try on the dummies, which are made of some kind of amber gel that feels as solid as my bicep. On the far side of the range of dummies, the pair from District 1 are more chatting with each other than actually practicing – actually, it's kind of a serious discussion they seem to be having.

Before they catch me paying attention, I hear the girl say something distinctly – "come on, can't be getting _too_ human now – what would Corsage say?"

Her partner replies, darkly, "probably something casually but incalculably offensive, knowing him," and the girl practically cackles.

They're bizarre. I don't have Bridget's animosity towards the trainees – I mean, we're all cogs in the same fucked-up machine, no sense in hating one cog more than another. But even I can admit they're one funny couple.

"You ready to go?" I ask Bridget, loudly enough to ensure that the trainee pair get the memo that there's other people using the same space.

Like, I got no problem with them as people, but also no sense pissing them off if we can avoid it. Bridget might get a kick out of starting shit, but I know enough to be pretty confident that keeping our heads down is the best way to get through this and past the bloodbath without a target on our backs as we make a break for it.

That's kind of my only worry with Bridget – that her idealism and confidence in herself will get her killed when she sees the dying start at the bloodbath. I'm not sure it's fully hit her just how dead a lot of these people are gonna be within the next few days. Especially the little ones. I'm not totally sure how she's gonna deal with seeing that.

I'm not gonna fuss about it – there's no risk that she'll get _me_ killed, putting _her_ neck on the line. That's the nice thing about Bridget – she's always ready to accept the consequences of her actions on her own, doesn't expect anyone else to take the fall for her.

That same trait that makes her an effective leader in some circumstances makes her a strong ally in this particular context.

Pleasantly enough, as we begin to hack at the dummies, Bridget discovers that she's not entirely bad with this light sword – she seems to have sort of a knack for getting in fast and cutting deep, despite her small size. She's quick, I'll give her that.

We practice the basic drills for a bit, and the instructor comes over to show us some fancier moves after maybe fifteen minutes of practice.

After all that hacking, even my arms are a bit tired, but we dutifully follow the older woman through the forms she demonstrates that will, ostensibly, help us impress the Gamemakers tomorrow.

"Feeling good?" she asks, after we practice a little longer.

The pair from District 1 have long since vacated the area, and other tributes are starting to pick up swords and make movements towards the dummies – it looks like it might be a good time to get out of the pair from District 9 and the pair from District 11's ways.

"Yeah," Bridget says. "Thanks so much!"

She's practically glowing with pride after having received a few kernels of praise from the instructor – and I can't blame her. The woman seemed hard to please. Bridget really is a quick learner.

Really, if only she were a little bigger and a little older, we'd be in much better shape.

As-is, we're not exactly fucked, though.

"We got a few minutes before we can start heading over for lunch," Bridget says. "Anything else you want to try?"

"I think we need a break from weapons," I suggest, massaging my sore forearms. "Maybe for the rest of the day. Want to hit survival skills, see if we can pick anything else up?"

"Sounds good, looks like District 2 has finally figured out the secret to fire," Bridget sighs.

Indeed, the pair from District 2 are looking extremely pleased with themselves as a collection of tinder has finally set alight.

"How long did that take them?" I ask. "Was it… over an hour?"

"I mean, without matches…"

The leggy blonde from District 2 proudly taps the box of matches in her hand.

"Okay, no excuses," I laugh. "C'mon, let's go see if we can beat their time."

Bridget laughs too – a good sound to hear. She seems relieved by the results of the swordplay station. She really will have something to show the Gamemakers. She's not at all shabby with a small blade. That'll be useful regardless of what kind of instrument we end up with. Snatch something from the outskirts of the Cornucopia and keep on running, that's the plan of action.

We're not likely to get a broadsword with that kind of strategy, so it's all just as well.

"I feel okay," she tells me. "I think it's gonna be okay!"

I sigh. Yeah, not the perfect attitude going into this. I'd much prefer to see her exhibiting some healthy skepticism. But then again, this is the Hunger Games, not a shift at the factory. I don't get to pick my partner, I take what I can get.

And all things considered, I'd have a real job finding a better ally from this bunch.

Bridget's the right fit, and I think I'm the right fit for her. When it comes down to it, District 3 allegiance beats just about anything.

If I have to bet on anything, I'll bet on my district. And right now, that means betting on Bridget.

I'll take that bet.

I'll have to.

x

 _In the past I've written out everyone's private session from the Gamemakers' perspective, but that's exhausting and I'm already burning myself out on interviews so unless y'all are absolutely desperate to see twenty-two private training sessions, I'm … not going to do that. I'll post the scores as a prefix to the interviews._

 _As always, though, please let me know what and who you liked from this chapter, we're edging closer to the Games and my plan for who lives and who dies is ... flexible ... to say the least._

 _Also! With this chapter I've finally broken 100,000 words invested in this horcrux of a fic! That's a lot, and I'm feeling good about it._


	29. Interviews, Part 1

_Note: I had to debate whether to break this into two parts, and I ended up … breaking this into two parts. The sum total of this chapter is over 12,000 words long and that's just. So Many Words. Stay tuned for the second part tomorrow!_

 _Also, thank you for the reviews – y'all know who you are – they warm my icy heart. :')_

x

Interviews, Part 1

x

Next day, he toppled his head off  
On an island beach to the south,

And the enemy's two-handed sword  
Did not fall from anyone's hands  
At that miraculous sight,  
As the head rolled over upon  
Its wide-eyed face, and fell  
Into the inadequate grave

He had dug for himself, under pressure.

'The Performance', James L. Dickey

x

Interviews

Casca Van Beck, Apprentice Gamemaker

Milling around in the control room with the panel of twelve Gamemakers in full regalia isn't exactly my idea of a good time, but somehow this is the most exciting part of my job. In off-season I'm cooped up in the back sending missives and doing data-entry for the science wing, so honestly, this is the start of the month that's about as good as it gets around here.

There's also wine – there wasn't during the private sessions, but I'm pretty sure Lorenzo cajoled our tight-ass Head Gamemaker into letting us have a little fun, at least, since we're not even there in person watching the interviews.

Annia is all decked out for the near-incipience of the Games in a form-fitting royal purple suit shot with gold embroidery – rumor is, she commissioned it from the District 1 stylist, Lepida, after seeing the chariot attire. For someone so insistent that she be referred to informally, only by her first name, she certainly does make an effort to dress a cut above the common throng.

Today's skirt suit probably cost more than three of my apprentice Gamemaker paychecks would cover – in terms of station, I'm maybe one step over from the guy who fetches the coffee. His name is Laertes, and he speaks so little I thought he was an avox for the first month at my post. I probably outrank him to an extent, but that's a soft 'probably'.

Most of the time, the two or three apprentice Gamemakers they keep around are more or less just expected to offer the stupidest possible suggestions and get soundly shot down in order to build character or something. Senseless ideas and inane proposals give the actual Gamemakers the confidence boost they need to do the job they're all doing so spectacularly well that they have to keep apprentice spares around in case one gets killed. Doesn't happen so much these days, but some positions and power structures hang around as relics of the past.

We're like extra tires stored in the trunk, but more fun to push around.

The apprentices are pretty easy to recognize – we have a brightly colored badge that clearly distinguishes us from full Gamemakers. I can spot my fellow apprentices scattered around the meeting room.

Today, we're convened to watch the interviews screened in real time. It's still a stadium-style spectacle, but with Annia's rise as Head Gamemaker, the Gamemakers are no longer permitted to attend. That was ruled 'too stressful' for the competitors - the interviews, she claims, ought to be more of a 'getting to know you' moment than a 'getting to judge you' moment, which is stupid because we and every other person in the Capitol aren't going to quit judging anyone because she arbitrarily decides that we shouldn't.

But I'm just an idiot, right?

Part of it also has to be because the interviewer who replaced Flickerman after the Mockingjay Rebellion, Leona Forester, doesn't get along well with Annia. Tabloids have covered vitriolic exchanges between them - each one provoked by Annia, who is notoriously short-tempered about media coverage of the Games that she doesn't explicitly control that doesn't meet her standards.

So maybe it's a blessing that instead of getting to join the masses of enthusiastic Games-viewers in the arena, we're all stuffed in the big meeting room to watch them on the big screen. Annia is guaranteed at least one angry outburst about the treatment of some interviewee, and it's probably better that it takes place behind closed doors.

Like, on some level, I get why they have Leona. Caesar was amazing, of course, a one-in-a-million talent, but he was almost too smooth. Never a ripple, never a scandal. The districts loved him as much as they hated the Games. That's not a good setup, even if it might seem that way from the surface.

Better to have someone who's a little obnoxious and rubs people the wrong way, seems well-intentioned but doesn't always manage to help the contestants out as much as she thinks she does. People, by their nature, will find something to be upset about – probably a good idea to have a lightning rod for that.

The time is approaching for the interviews to start – something in Annia's manner changes as she turns to address us.

"Are we all present?" she asks, and the room quickly quiets.

"Assuming we are," Annia says briskly, "please take your seats – let's watch these interviews and determine our direction for the bloodbath. Please be writing down ideas as we go, and pay particular attention to alliances and tributes we've tapped for post-bloodbath likelihood."

The control room dims, and the seal flashes across a massive screen that I have to turn uncomfortably in my seat to view. With the first strains of Panem's archaic anthem, the interviews begin.

The first tribute, Jewel Lasday, District 1, looks stunning in a form-fitting emerald green dress that, at first glance, affords her the illusion of height. Looking closer, as she walks, the hem lifts slightly, revealing perilously high heels.

She is flawlessly made up – I know good contouring when I see it – hair curled loosely and interspersed with emerald pins.

This stylist knows exactly what they're doing.

"Good afternoon, Jewel," the interviewer, Leona Forester, begins.

"Good afternoon, Leona," Jewel replies, matching her interviewer's command of the situation pace-for-pace.

She has a remarkable sort of posture to her. For her size, the way she squares her shoulders announces that she has no compunctions about taking up space.

"I was going to take a moment to thank you for being here, but my goodness, your stylist has really been rolling out the welcome mat for you and your partner – the two of you just fit right in with the Capitol!"

"That's the thing about District 1 – we can belong just about anywhere."

"I hope that'll hold true for you in the arena – you pulled a respectable training score, no? A nine – more than a little impressive for someone who comes in at under five feet."

Jewel throws back her head and laughs. "Well, I'm not going to say size doesn't matter, but in this case it really _is_ how you use it."

The crowd is loving her, I note – and several of my colleagues around the long table seem to be nodding their approval.

When the applause onscreen dies down, Leona presses on valiantly.

"I know everyone who's seen the training footage is dying to know – what's the deal with you and Manari? Well, and Marcus, and Angel…" she trails off suggestively.

There's a microsecond where Jewel pauses to recollect herself – I see several of my fellow Gamemakers respond immediately, jotting aggressive notes on their little notepads.

"I mean, have you _seen_ Manari? Talk about tall, dark, and handsome. All I hear is a list of unnaturally attractive young people, and frankly, I don't have a problem with that if you wanna keep listing. I don't think anyone watching would have a problem with that either, hm?"

She grins wolfishly, and the audience goes along eagerly. Jewel seems to be feeding off their energy – a real pro.

"It'll be a real shame to see them die," she finishes.

"By which you mean?"

"When I _win_ , Leona. I'm just a little disappointed I had to meet them in this context."

It's Leona's turn to smile. "You seem very confident!"

"Trust me," Jewel says, suddenly steely. "I'm confident because I've earned confidence."

A bell sounds – she stands, navigating near-effortlessly on heels that must be seven inches high, and returns to her seat, tapping Manari's shoulder and whispering something that makes him squint back at her as though she's just told him that President Lancaster is secretly a turtle.

His presence is very different than Jewel's as he finds his feet, impossibly tall and broad beneath a long, fancy emerald green coat embroidered with gold thread over a set of gold pants, looser than the ones he wore in the chariot ride that made such a stir. He's positively regal, shoulders tossed back as though he's already won.

I can't find it in me to doubt that victory is his exact intention. His certainty in his own superiority is positively contagious – though this posture is a marked discrepancy from the way he carried himself snickering with Jewel over some unspoken jibe.

I wonder what's going on in his head. There's something inscrutable in the set of his jaw, the way the muscle clenches beneath dark, satiny skin.

"Well, Manari," Leona begins as he finds his seat, six and a half feet of stony silence sitting opposite her. "Looks like you've got your hands full with Jewel."

He bristles visibly. "I'm not her keeper."

"It didn't sound like she'd mind very much."

"She's literally _right there_."

His expression is impossibly cold. _Jewel called it wrong - tall, dark, and irritated, more like_ , I want to whisper to the Gamemaker next to me – a tall, severe woman named Jachima. I meet her gaze – she doesn't look like she'll be amused by whatever I'm going to say next.

I keep my witty comment to myself.

"Regardless, walking into the arena with a ten – I'm sure you feel prepared to take on just about anything!"

"Clearly, given that I volunteered."

 _Ouch_. He is _not_ giving Leona the interview she wants, and she hates it but has absolutely no idea how to get the thing going in the direction she intended.

"The prospect of winning couldn't have been the only thing motivating you to volunteer?" she presses.

"It is, actually."

"That said, it's hard not to notice alliances forming – it looks like District 1, District 2, and District 4 will be together again!"

"That's right."

"You seem to place a great deal of faith in your high training score, but you have to be aware of your competition – you allied with Marcus, who, of course, scored an eleven."

Leona is pushing it, now, aware that he's completely closed off and she's not likely to get any more useful answers, despite having a good minute or two left to fill.

"I'm aware."

"How do you feel about that? Can you account for the discrepancy between your scores?"

"We fight differently."

"How exactly do you feel you play into the dynamic of your alliance?"

"Just fine."

" _Just_ fine?"

"I'm sorry, do you have a better answer? Would you like me to interview you instead? Maybe you could just repeat everything I say with a slightly different intonation. That would make for _great_ television."

He's so utterly, delightfully _done_ with this interview. I get the vibe that these sentiments have been bubbling up pretty steadily over the last several days.

"Perhaps it _would_ make for a better viewing experience, if that sort of thing could coax you into polysyllabic answers," Leona sniffs.

"'Victor' only has two syllables."

The bell rings, and Leona seems to glow with relief.

Manari returns to his seat, where Jewel nearly hops into his lap in her eagerness to hug him. That muscle in his jaw stays tense – he's grinding his teeth something fierce, gaze still locked smolderingly on Leona as Jewel apparently congratulates him.

Next up is Cora, the District 2 girl – blonde, beaming, beautiful as a vision with her hair cascading around her face and a modest but well-tailored white dress covering nearly every inch of her impossibly fair skin.

"Sure they didn't mix up District 1 and District 2?" Jachima asks no one in particular, but I entertain the delusion that someone is talking to me.

"The District 2 pair _are_ awfully good-looking this year," I say aloud, so that I can feel like I'm adding something.

All of the Careers are – pretty tributes are the norm in District 1, and Manari and Jewel are delivering the smolders and the perfect figures wrapped in just-a-bit-too-tight costumes admirably. It's more of a surprise when it comes to District 2, but hey, who's going to criticize form over function in the Capitol?

"Cora, it's so lovely to have you this afternoon – and can we just take a moment to admire this dress?" Leona begins, delighted by the change of pace. "Your stylists have outdone themselves."

Cora smiles brilliantly. Her teeth are as white as the fabric of her gown. "You can't even imagine how much I love it. It's just like home – white, like the marble, see? You haven't seen white till you've seen our quarries. They just _glow_."

I find it hard to believe that the dangerous mining industry is quite so beautiful as she's making it out to be, but I'm willing to suspend my disbelief.

"Is the Capitol more of a transition for you than for the tributes from District 1, perhaps?"

"Oh, to be sure!" she emotes. "It's so different! I haven't been able to break the habit of getting up at five, though. It's natural to be up to see the sun rise, though it's over the buildings instead of the mountains."

"Something about your hard work paid off, Cora – the ten that you earned blew us all out of the water."

"I _did_ volunteer – it's like Manari says, you don't volunteer unless you feel you can represent your district fairly."

There's something terribly wrong with this entire interview, but I can't put my finger on it. I scan the faces of my colleagues to try to discern from their reactions whether I've had some sudden break with reality.

It's focusing away from the screen for a second that does it – they've been hypnotized by the interview, and I see it for what it is. Or at least, a crack in the façade.

"She's shaking," I announce. "Look at her hands."

Under the modest white dress, you can barely see the District 2 girl's body – it seems so calculated, now. Her hands are shaking violently, and, on closer inspection, are wrapped in bandages. Recalling her _display_ in the private session ... but _surely_ they would have patched her up by now? The pain would have to be excruciating...

"What would you say your biggest asset in the arena is?" Leona asks, nearly cheerful with the ease of this interview.

"You know, in District 2, they raise us strong."

She clenches her fists, and for a second, her dark eyes are chips of flint. The microphone pick up the last remnant of what sounds like a soft _crunch_. Red abruptly seeps through the white bandages that have been, up until now, blending so well with her skin.

"Oh my," Leona comments nervously. "Are your hands alright?"

"They will be by the Games." Cora shrugs.

"Yes…" Leona trails off. "Well, that must make you feel quite confident. I suppose it helps to have such an accomplished district partner, too."

"Absolutely!" Cora confirms, not missing a beat. The red stains seem to be travelling up her arms, seeping through the fabric of the beautiful crisp white dress. People in the audience are starting to notice. "You know, Marcus will need someone watching his back, pulling an eleven like that. Lucky thing he's got me."

"Yes, very lucky."

Leona isn't even bothering to hide the fact that she's entranced by the blossoming red stains.

"I know he has it in him. That's the final thing the lot of you ought to take out of this, if anything – in District 2, we believe in loyalty. Marcus isn't just my ally, he's my friend and my partner. Lay a hand on either of us-" she smiles, and what once was charming is now approaching Eldritch as she raises her bloody hands – god, her fingers are all at angles – and curls them into twin 'ok' signs "-and there will be _hell_ to pay."

The bell rings – she timed that impossibly well. Cora rises with a flourish and returns to her seat, grinning from ear to ear.

"Whoa," one Gamemaker from the far corner comments.

"'Whoa' is right," Annia confirms. "My, but District 2's Center really is adept at giving us exactly what we want. But let's wait until the next one before we pass judgment."

The boy from District 2, Marcus Ota, is everything that his partner appeared to be at first. He's dressed in a crisp white button-up and slacks, both achingly well-fitted, a few too many shirt buttons left undone. A little yellow flower is tucked in one of the buttonholes – on anyone else, exposing half of their chest might seem a bid for attention, but he's making it look downright wholesome.

"Are we sure this is District 2?" Jachima asks again. "Like, he doesn't have the look."

There's no doubt that the boy is utterly beautiful – you can tell he's not wearing makeup, his skin is really just that perfect, plush lips quirked in a kind but knowing smile. Huge, expressive black eyes. Beautiful, yes – District 2? Not much.

"Well now, let's just take a look at you!" Leona exclaims as he approaches.

His modest half-smile, revealing a fraction of a canine tooth, makes it very clear that he's about to utterly win her over.

Of course, we're all still a little on-edge after the girl. He's under scrutiny and he knows it. There's a shocking well of intelligence in those dark eyes.

"Don't mind if I join you and take a seat?" he asks gently.

"Please, my goodness," Leona says, beckoning him closer. "Marcus Ota, let's clear the air. You scored an eleven. That's pretty astounding."

That shy half-smile again. "You've already heard our spiels about volunteering, I won't belabor the point. I know I've got a lot to prove to myself and District 2, and a lot to live up to."

"Well, the score for one thing – I see you set the bar high. What's your follow-through plan?"

He smiles a little sadly, averts his eyes, scuffs his shoes, adjust the cuff link on his button-down. "We can't talk about it, you know."

"Of course not!" She looks apologetic for having even suggested such a thing.

This guy is a _pro_.

"Here's what I can say - you don't score an eleven without working hard, and I can promise that I've done exactly that. I've been working all my life to be accepted, and – well, this can't be much different, can it?"

Okay, laying it on a little thick, but I'm intrigued. The crowd echoes my sentiments audibly. Come on, Leona, ask the question, get to the meat, why is he so tragically isolated? Step back, let him tell his story!

"Well, you poor thing. The issue of, er, acceptance," Leona begins, pausing. "It's quite apparent that you're not, well, related to say… Cora, your district partner."

She blew it. This is going to get ugly, I can feel it.

"Related to her? I mean, I should hope not. Different as night and day, not to mention the fact that close blood relations would be something of a… moral indictment."

He smiles, laughs. It's all very soft, genuine, disarming. He's avoiding the question. Doing a good job of it, too, judging by the delighted, speculative whispers flickering through the crowd.

Leona is struggling, again. With perhaps the easiest subject in the word to interview. I want to grab her by the shoulders and shout _just let him say what he's been planning to say or prompt him to talk about how much he loves puppies or something, shut this down!_

"But your…" she begins again, gesturing at his face and hands.

There's that dark glimmer that you see in all of the Career tributes. In Jewel when Leona tried to criticize her promiscuity. Manari when she demeaned a woman he seemed to care about. Cora, questioned on her strength. Marcus, his identity.

"My what?" he asks innocently, imitating her awkward gesture with flawless precision. "Clarify for me, please."

"…appearance, your appearance isn't quite typical to District 2. Why is that?"

"I'm not typical to District 2 either, Leona." Pure ice. "I'll fight for my district and I'll die for my district, I'll defend my partner to my last breath. But I am _not_ typical to District 2. A typical citizen of District 2 is sleeping safely in his bed tonight because I volunteered."

"…but if you could explain, I'm sure we'd all appreciate, just to know a little more about your background…"

"Talk to my parents once I'm in the final eight if you're looking for a family tree. Where I'm _going_ is a whole lot more relevant than where I come from these days."

He stands as the bell chimes, bows to Leona with more than a little hyperbole, and takes his leave.

An older Gamemaker whistles softly. "There are things you don't see when they're just practicing a sword routine in front of you," he comments.

"We've know that since day one," Jachima replies. "Come on, Lorenzo, senile already?"

"Ask your mother how senile she thinks me," Lorenzo sniffs, adjusting his impressive grey beard.

"More like my grandmother," Jachima shoots back.

I can almost hear Annia's teeth grinding from the other side of the table. She absolutely hates unprofessional behavior in the Gamemaking rooms – basically, if you're not talking exclusively about the tributes and doing it in your most respectful tone of voice while you're on the clock, you're asking for a tongue-lashing.

Even among the apprentice Gamemakers, I'm an alarmingly frequent recipient of those lectures.

Fortunately, Annia doesn't have to shush us back to the screen.

Bridget from District 3 is trying her very best not to look uncertain and out of place in a truly magnificent costume, a slightly shimmering blue-black dress only a few shades darker than her skin, adorned with neat silver lines that stretch from her sleeves to her arms and neck, sectioning her body into parallelograms.

With her shaven head, the effect is captivating. She herself has a vast well of quiet interpersonal charisma – you can see it in the way she carries herself on the way to meet Leona – but she's too young to really know how to use it properly, and in a terrifyingly unfamiliar situation as well.

"Bridget, may I just say it's a pleasure to have you here," Leona begins as the girl hesitantly seats herself. "You look positively otherworldly."

"I think that's the vibe the stylists were going for," Bridget replies, shrugging her slender shoulders.

"While you've looked utterly stunning in your public appearances, I think it's your back-home activities that have really ignited our interest. What can you tell us about that?"

She half-smiles, half-grimaces. "I stand by everything I said at the rally, and it was totally legal for me to be there."

"You wouldn't feel more prepared if District Three had a Center?"

"It's not…" she pauses, fidgeting in frustration. "I just want to make things better for all of us, I swear. Preparation or not, like… no one has a great chance. Even the people who have Centers don't win all the time, right?"

"That's true, but-"

"We're already not spending money right, and though we'd obviously get more if, like, me or Dion won, we don't _need_ more. We have enough. Y'all give us a lot, but we don't use it for what it needs to be used for. A training center doesn't fix that."

"You've clearly thought this through. Is there any way to keep advancing your cause in the arena?"

Her face seems to fall for a second, expression deviating only momentarily from the pure conviction of her previous answer. "I'd have to win. Like, I'll… I guess I'll have to, right?"

"Now you don't sound so sure."

"Well, you saw my seven, it's not like I _don't_ have a chance. And if there's anything you can learn from my history, I _don't_ give up – I get shit done. I _got_ shit done."

"I don't doubt it," Leona says, and she smiles with a warmth that reads only a few inches from actual sincerity.

At the sound of the bell, Bridget rises and throws up a fist – a gesture the crowd doesn't seem to understand, applause mixing with confused murmurs. I wonder who she's gesturing for. It seems important to her.

"I don't think we can rule her out, especially allied with her partner – they make an interesting pair," Palama, an older woman who's been on the staff since before Annia took over, comments, finally raising her voice.

We all know she's one of Annia's favorites, what with the 'quiet' and the 'respectful' and the 'ability to shut up'. She only speaks when she genuinely has something to say, which, admirable though it may be by some metrics, is also phenomenally boring.

No one responds, as the boy from District 3 is already making his way to the interviewee's seat, in a suit jacket and well-fitted slacks of the same satiny blue-black quality of Bridget's dress, edged with silver and white. He cuts an imposing figure, and while his posture is not so regal and assuming as the tribute from District 1, he might even be, inch for inch and pound for pound, a bit taller and more muscular.

Interesting. A laborer from District 3. Not the usual type we get.

"So, Dion – the question on everyone's mind, are you with your partner on the topic of District 3's proposed policy change?"

Leona is really jumping in feet first. Dion laughs.

"Y'all don't waste any time, do you? Bridget and I don't see eye to eye on everything, but why would we? I'm about twice her height."

Laughter ripples through the crowd as well.

"So you're not quite so politically inclined as she is?"

"Well, I'm from District Three, I'm no dumb muscle, but I've never seen sense in talking politics too much."

"Then let's talk about something else – you scored an impressive nine in your session with the Gamemakers."

"Yeah, there's a topic I'm more comfortable on!" He laughs again – it's a deep noise, with a mellow quality I would almost call 'comforting'. "Please, keep the compliments coming."

"So, no elaboration on your plans for the Games?"

"Me and Bridget are gonna be tough to beat, let's leave it at that. We've both got powerful incentive to make it home. I'm missing my girl, Xenita, something fierce. But I'm not too worried about whether I'll see her again."

He grins. "Love you, Xe – be home soon, baby."

"Aw," Leona emotes. "That's wonderful. Memories from home to keep you strong."

"Ain't that the truth. But don't get it twisted – I'm _more_ than strong enough on my own."

The bell rings, and Dion stands, unfolding what must be going on seven feet of him from his chair, smiling widely and waving to the cheering crowd. I might be overestimating, but he really does have such a presence to him – in a different way to the menace of big trainee tributes who tend to make up the early districts. He's the sort of guy you just want to clap on the back and buy a drink.

"Back to trainees," Lorenzo notes. "District Four did pretty well for themselves this year – the girl pulled a nine, the boy an eight?"

"Yeah," Jachima confirms, checking her notes. "Solid. Wouldn't say special, though."

The girl, Renata, despite her stylist's best efforts, looks entirely out of place in a dress – at least it's not too frilly or over-styled, just a simple deep blue gown that highlights her dark complexion. Her short hair is pinned back, though there's not much to pull away from her face. She's no beauty, and while her features are relatively fine, they don't entirely fit her broad jaw – but there's a kind of fierce intelligence to her eyes.

She's no dumb muscle herself.

"Renata Ortiz!" Leona announces. "A pleasure to have you here."

"Thank you," she replies, a little awkwardly as she's still trying to figure out exactly how to sit, and seems stressed by the way the folds of her gown are settling.

"Do you need a second?"

"Ha, no – just. It's a good thing they won't have us wearing this kind of silly thing in the arena, right?"

Some laughter, a little uncomfortable, though. The crowd is feeling her out-of-placeness. She seems to catch on to that, and straightens up a bit.

"I'll say!" Leona emotes, finally actually doing her job and easing the tension a bit. "Hard to score a nine in a long skirt, I'd bet."

Renata smiles, and while it's thin, it seems she's genuinely easing up. "But not too hard in a jumpsuit."

"That's an impressive score! But I'm not the first to tell you that."

"Y'know, you're not – but I still appreciate it. It's been nothing but hard work for me, but let me say … it feels good to see it paying off."

I wonder how hard her mentor worked to try to coach her into something likeable. This clearly isn't natural for her – she's playing down her accent, hard, her voice something very different from what we heard during training. In contrast with Manari from District 1, who embraced 'strong and silent' as a type, she seems to be gamely trying to connect.

District 4 isn't the easy bet for sponsors that District 1 has become, with their three victors and no sign of slowing up. If Renata didn't sell a moderately 'out there' angle – whether strong and silent or something else – perfectly, she'd have been shit out of luck.

Neveah probably judged it safer to stick with the classics. As I'm no mentor myself, I'd wager he knows better than me.

Still, doesn't make for an exciting interview experience for anyone observing.

"Have you been getting on well in the Capitol?"

"Me and Angel have been having a pretty good time of it, but of course, it's what's coming next that's important. And I hope anyone who's watching knows, they haven't seen anything yet."

"Anything else we should know about you, going in?"

"Well, I have to be careful where I hold my hand – but be ready to see the best of what District 4 has to offer. That's me."

She smiles, and – I've got to hand it to her, she does manage to sell that last line before the bell. When she stands, she doesn't teeter, at least partially because she doesn't seem to be wearing heels. In fact, she moves with surprising grace for a woman of her size and build.

All and all, she must be proud of how she came off – Renata didn't exactly display fantastic charisma throughout the training process, mostly keeping to herself, even when paired off with her partner, the ever-ebullient Angel.

He looks dapper, flashing her – and the rest of the early districts – a thumbs up as he takes his seat, putting a beaming grin on display before greeting Leona with a kiss on the cheek that seems to surprise her.

His stylists have him in a dark blue dress shirt and a pair of light-gold trousers that fit him just at the edge of too tight – his hair is tousled artfully, and while he's no Finnick Odair, he has a kind of rakish charm to him. A different approach than the first two career tributes, but, if he can play it right, perhaps a solid move.

"Beautiful Leona!" he begins, before she can lead him with a first statement. "What a pleasure!"

"Well, same to you, I must say!" she replies, a little flustered by the greeting.

"That's how to greet a good friend in the part of District Four I come from," he says. "I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable?"

Leona practically giggles. "Not at all!"

"Well, I couldn't live with myself if I did. After the Capitol has opened its heart to me, I only want to return the favor as best I can."

"You've already made a good start, in training – it's clear you took something of the lead in your alliance, wouldn't you say?"

He looks so tremendously pleased with himself, only slightly abashed at the praise. I would pay a quarter of my paycheck for a camera angle on the other trainees right now. The crowd may love him, but I doubt his allies are responding in the same regard.

While they don't seem like a vicious enough bunch to turn on him over a few boasts in an interview, it would be a real treat to see how the first post-event conversation goes amongst the allies.

"…well, anything more than an eight is window dressing if you ask me," Angel is saying to Leona when I turn my attention back to the screen. "I'm happy with my score."

"What do you mean by that?"

"It matters that I can fight, right? And I think you know by now that I can. Who cares how fancy I swing the sword, so long as I can?"

"I do believe you," Leona says, smiling. "But how are you going to compete with your allies – nines, tens, an eleven?"

Angel's smile doesn't waver for a second. "Doesn't matter what you got, we all die with a blade in our throats. Even if you score an eleven."

The bell rings – he timed that very well. I've gotta give it to him, he's got confidence, and the charisma to back it up. He garnered at least as much applause as the bizarre but fascinating pair from District 2.

"Okay," Annia announces from the head of the table. "Let's take a little break and discuss. That's all of our trainees – they're some of the most important players we have, and they're our principal alliance. What have you learned about them?"

In the background, the girl from District 5 – mentally delicate, physically delicate, and well-dressed but totally spaced out in a yellow gown that complements her dark complexion – takes the stage.

Annia spares her a brief glance as Leona opens up the conversation.

"I'm not worried about her," she says. "We know about all there is to know about her, and we profiled her as doing poorly with public speaking."

"Okay, then," Lorenzo says, disregarding the beginning of Doreen's interview. "That Angel is quite a character, but I'm not sure he has the skills to back it up. Jewel, from District One, is really the one making this alliance work. She's got pretty absolute support from her partner, and I don't see much likelihood of backstabbing between the two of them. He really confirms her authority to the group – he respects her, so they do."

"Hold on now," Jachima says. "Don't put all of her success on Manari. He's got her back, but she's also perfectly savvy on her own. They just happened to luck out with that pairing."

"I wouldn't chalk up anything the District One training center does down to luck," Annia says. "But I think you're both right. Good work. Any thoughts on the spectacle from District Two?"

"The girl is…" one of the other apprentices volunteers hesitantly. "Well, we know she's had a drug problem, right? How do we use that?"

"Sponsors send drugs into the arena all the time," Annia replies, smiling at the young woman, as if encouraging her to speak more.

She checks something on her clipboard. "Medical-grade dependency, so that shouldn't be too hard to engineer. Don't we have a pharmacist coming up in District Six?"

The room's attention shifts back to the screen – Doreen, the girl from District 5, is sobbing into her hands as Leona attempts to comfort her. The bell finally rings and allows her back to her seat, as her ungainly partner, who must be barely over 15, but looks tall and gawky in his sunshine-yellow suit, approaches. He has beautiful green eyes behind glasses set in a clearly-teenage face, not unattractive but also not far along enough to really tell who he'd be in a few years, if he had the chance to grow up.

While he looks smart enough, and he doesn't seem to have any issue with public speaking, it's hard to imagine him making it through the first day or two. His voice is uncommonly soft and has a higher pitch than you'd expect to look at him.

"Welcome, Trace!" Leona is saying, looking delighted to be interviewing someone who is not crying yet.

Annia interrupts after watching for a few seconds. "Anything more on District Two? I know the girl was flashy, but you can't deny that her partner is just as much so, but more quietly."

"How would it play in District Two if he won?" I ask. "She's being set up as the district's darling, but he'd have more trouble with that, being so foreign-looking."

"I'd correct you on that last statement if it weren't true," Annia sighs. "I wish it wasn't like that, but District Two does have a look. I can see why Claudia and Aaron brought him on – in terms of skill, he's got every tribute in this lineup beat. But I don't know how we'd play his victory."

"There's no reason to worry about that yet," Jachima observes. "He's a smart one, and he can clearly tell that he's got a few cards stacked against him. If he plays himself right, we won't even have to put a spin on it."

"You're right," Annia says.

"He and his partner seem to have been – well, _getting on_ well enough," Lorenzo comments. "Is that an angle he's playing? She doesn't seem sophisticated enough to have thought it up herself, but it could help _him_ out. A little bit of her popularity back home could rub off on him, if you'll pardon the crudeness of that expression."

"I'm not sure," Annia replies, checking her notes again. "Claudia claims they didn't get on spectacularly well before the reaping, but they've been inseparable in the Capitol."

"Trainee romance doesn't play well with sponsors," Lorenzo says. "They must know that. Their mentors are too smart to be encouraging it. The Capitol likes to see the trainees focused on their job."

From the screen, I hear an uptick in applause – Trace, the boy from District 5, seems to have done a fairly good job with his interview. Shame his score, a fairly-earned 4, won't serve him nearly as well in the Games.

"What more can we do than our best?" he's asking Leona, and before she can reply, the bell rings and ushers him back to the line of chairs where the other tributes wait.

"Oh, hang on," Annia says. "District 6 is up next. The girl is a contender and the boy's father has been making trouble for us back at home."

x

 _This is where I leave you for the evening - the rest of the chapter is written and ready to go, check for it around 9pm tomorrow!_


	30. Interviews, Part 2

_Note: here's the half-chapter I withheld last night! I took a day off but now I'm gonna start hammering out some more pre-Games and get started on that bloodbath. It's so wild – this is the third time I've gone through this, but I'm just as amped as I was when I was 13 and writing from the hospital._

x

Interviews, Part 2

x

And then knelt down in himself  
Beside his hacked, glittering grave, having done  
All things in this life that he could.

'The Performance', James L. Dickey

x

Casca Van Beck, Apprentice Gamemaker

Yuna Watanabe looks very pretty in her long, diaphanous red chiffon gown, her thick, straight hair somehow styled to give it more volume. She doesn't look as ill at ease as some tributes do on their way up – her mentor, An, must have done a reasonably good job of coaching her.

"Hello and welcome, Yuna!" Leona begins. "What a striking gown you're wearing!"

Yuna smiles slightly. "Thank you," she says.

"Now, we're all very charmed by your alliance with Fidan of District Seven – how exactly did that happen?"

"We work well together – between the two of us, Fidan and I make a strong team. I'm sure you'll only see more of that in the arena."

"With a six, you're definitely bringing something to the table in this alliance, but what specifically would you say is your talent?"

"Back home, I'm a pharmacist," Yuna explains. "That means I work with both chemicals and people – I need to know exactly how to treat both, to get what I need from them."

"Ah," Leona says, smiling broadly. "We all remember your mentor, An – that was quite a year!"

"I don't intend to be passive in the arena, so watch for that," Yuna says. "Fidan and I know exactly how to impress you. Just wait."

"I don't know how I'm going to keep myself from the edge of my seat!" Leona emotes.

In response, Yuna just smiles – a little cryptically – then stands as the bell rings and she returns to her seat.

"She knows what she's doing," Jachima observes. "You're right, Annia. This one is interesting."

"It's a good thing she didn't go for the pity alliance," Annia just sighs, as Yuna's district partner, Lucas, takes his seat across from Leona.

He's a tiny thing, but Annia must be grateful to see that he's wearing a well-fitted dress shirt and slacks that he's definitely not swimming in. It makes him look a little less pathetic than he might.

He's not meeting anyone's eyes, and looks tremendously uncomfortable both on the stage and in his clothes, the seams of which he keeps picking at.

"Lucas," Leona says, her voice full of emotion. "It's so nice to finally meet you. You've really captured Panem's heart over the last few days."

She must have been told to treat his youth and the tragedy of his selection as an angle he's playing – that's probably smart.

"Uhhh," he replies, looking horrified by the act of opening his mouth. "Thank … you."

"We've seen a lot of you during training – making friends, trying out new things. How was that? Have you been enjoying your time here?"

"Yeah, uh, yeah. It's… good."

"So the Capitol has been treating you well, then?"

"Everyone's… good. Yuna is nice."

"You have quite a partner, that's the truth! We've all seen her looking out for you in training!"

Leona is notably not mentioning the fact that Yuna has not brought Lucas into her alliance – probably a benefit to Yuna, too, that the interview has not highlighted her calculated decision.

"She lets me sit with her. She's really nice."

Lucas has not met Leona's eyes once as he's sat with her.

"Is there anything you'd like to tell anyone at home in District Six?"

"I miss my dad," he says. "I … really miss him."

"I'm so sorry, Lucas," Leona sighs.

"It's … it's okay."

"You're an unbelievably strong young man," she says. "We're so grateful to have you here."

"Thanks. Yeah, thanks," he half-murmurs, and finally, blessedly, the bell rings.

Wordlessly, he stands and shuffles back to his seat, looking immeasurably relieved not to have to talk anymore.

From the head of the table, Annia breathes a sigh of relief.

"That went better than I dared to hope," she announces.

Rather than redirecting the conversation, she seems reasonably interested in Fidan, who has a bounce in her step as she stands and begins to walk over to Leona.

Fidan is dressed in a short, spring-green gown with beautiful gold embroidery at the edge of the skirt and bodice, like the silhouettes of winter trees. Her long, dark hair – which almost brushes the bottom of her skirt – is left loose, with a few gold pins interspersed throughout its length.

She's very young – too small to be more than fifteen or sixteen – but has none of the trepidation that one usually sees in younger tributes.

"Hello!" she says before Leona can.

"Hello to you, too, Fidan!" Leona replies. "And welcome!"

"Thank you so much!" Fidan responds.

She seems to speak solely in exclamation points. The crowd is making similarly excited noises. This just seems to encourage her.

"Well, how has your time here been treating you? An impressive ally, a beautiful dress, a seven in training – you've been doing very well for yourself!"

"Can't disagree!" Fidan says. "I'm not gonna act like I was desperate to come here for the Games and all, but I've got stengths and I know how to play to them, and I've just been trying to enjoy the ride!"

"What did you do back home, to help you bring in that impressive score?"

"I was an assayer! That means I worked in the trees. I love the trees. The Capitol is beautiful, but there's not enough trees, here."

"So, are you excited then, for the arena? A surprising question for me to have reason to ask!"

"Not… everything about it," Fidan says, laughing. The crowd laughs with her. "Not every arena has trees, of course. But I've been training hard, and I'm ready to see it pay off!"

"That's good to hear!"

"Oh, and of course, I just love Yuna – it's going to be great to be with her! I know we can make it, together. Between the two of us, we're unstoppable!'

Leona smiles – Fidan smiles back. A satisfying conclusion as the ring of the bell excuses Fidan back to her seat.

"Her district partner?" Jachima asks, skeptically, as Oliver Salcedo stands, almost as wobbly as he was while being reaped.

Annia shrugs, almost dismissive. "He's been drinking a lot, since he's been here. That's a problem of his. There's no alcohol in the arena. If no one takes him out, his body will do it for him."

"I bet the trainees will target him anyway," Lorenzo suggests. "He's a big guy, acts pretty tough. They'll want him out of the way."

"You're probably right. Any thoughts about that district alliance – Yuna and Fidan?" Annia asks.

Oliver's answers, on stage, are short and even snappier than the District 1 boy's. He keeps shifting uncomfortably in his seat, and looks tremendously unhappy to be there. The crowd is not responding as well to him as they did when Manari pulled this 'I don't want to be here getting interviewed' vibe – he's just not doing it as charmingly or deliberately. And while he's an attractive young man, with a defined jaw and shapely features, he's not doing himself any favors with his slackened posture.

"They're pretty cute, and not without their talents," Lorenzo says, taking my attention back to the table. "Fidan is very quick, and stronger than she looks. Yuna, too, has done well for herself in training. She's been working hard."

"Likeable, too," Palama comments. "They both interviewed well. Strong contenders for district sympathy and support."

"All of that is true, though neither of them is gonna come out well from a one-on-one bout with a trainee," Jachima says.

"That's fair. We may have to intervene on their behalf to keep them around – neither would be a terrible outcome as victor, but it's not especially likely," Annia notes, scribbling something on her clipboard.

Oliver, onscreen, has said something that makes the crowd gasp, and even Leona look a little taken aback – the bell rings, and he skulks back to his seat.

"Oh dear," says Annia, watching him. "Who's next? District Eight – Jean hasn't been holding up too well, and her partner, Damask, is in that unfortunate alliance."

"She barely scored a three," Lorenzo says, watching as the girl, whose hair is extremely blonde and curly and comes down to her ears, makes her way to Leona in a pale blue dress that only accentuates the near-translucence of her skin. Her pallor is not unsettling in the way that Cora from District 2 wears it – she just looks extremely delicate, like she might blow over in a strong wind. She's incredibly skinny, even by district standards. Her collar bones are clearly visible beneath her dress.

"How about the District 3 alliance? We haven't talked about them much," Jachima interrupts, distracting us all from Jean's first 'hellos' with Leona.

"I thought we did," Lorenzo complains. "Not much to say. They're contenders, but how much so depends on how they actually do in the arena."

"We want them through the bloodbath, though, right?" I ask.

"Right," Annia says.

"They'll probably need less of our intervention than the Six-Seven pair," Jachima suggests. "The boy, Dion, could do well enough on his own, and the girl's clearly not useless."

"How would we be on them as victors?" Palama asks.

"Either one could work – Bridget especially, you can tell her beliefs line up well with what we'd want from District Three. It also might light a bit of a fire under the other districts, given how much animosity against Three they have in Eight and a few others," Annia explains. "Dion has more dangerous views, but he's got people he loves to think of. Not too much of a risk to anyone."

"Hm," Jachima says. "I _like_ Dion a lot. He's likeable."

"That's something to watch. We don't want a victor who too many people like. A little controversy is what'll hold attention until the next Games."

I already know most of this stuff – my attention keeps drifting back to Jean up on the screen, looking small and breakable and on the verge of tears. She has these huge blueish grey eyes – maybe they just always look like crying eyes, being tilted down at the outer edges. Kinda sad.

It's the bell that gets Annia's attention – "Hold on, is Damask next? Eight boy? He's one to look at, that _alliance_ …"

Damask isn't a big guy, on the gangly side, even in a fitted steel blue suit shot with threads of gold. The District 8 stylist did much better with these looks than the chariot outfits, that's for sure. He scored a five – not too bad, but nothing to write home about, either.

His posture reads as nervous, but somewhat defiant, too, as he joins Leona.

"Good afternoon, Damask," she says.

"Hi," he replies, a little shortly.

"How much time do we give him in the arena before his District Ten ally turns on him?" Lorenzo asks. "Thirty seconds?"

Annia gives him a stern look at that suggestion.

"Don't be crude," she admonishes him.

"Oh please, you know I'm right," he sighs. "The Ten boy is pure trouble."

"Exactly," Annia says. "We like him for the villain. I'm not sure what happened with this alliance – Damask was a random selection, we didn't figure him as anything to anyone. It's something of a surprise."

"Men like Samil have always had a way of bringing smaller men under their thrall," Palama says quietly. "If it hadn't been him, it would have been someone else. He needs a direct audience."

Annia nods soberly. Onscreen, Damask seems torn between bravado and his nerves.

"I'm not small and I'm not weak," he insists to Leona. "You won't see me go down easy, you hear?"

She laughs, a bit ill-at-ease herself. "I certainly do hear you, a five is nothing to sniff at."

"Damn right," he says. "I'm one to watch, okay? I didn't come this far to have it stop here, alright?"

The bell ends the interview before it can become actively hostile.

"Nine is up next," Jachima observes. "The girl – Bian – is a strong one."

"Not a fighter," Lorenzo says dismissively. "A seven isn't that impressive for someone of her size. She's a laborer, she should have picked up something to show us beyond lifting and throwing things. I don't think she has it in her."

Annia is checking her clipboard for something. "She inquired repeatedly to her escort on the topic of the stipend. Who it goes to. She wants it sent to a girl named Omri with whom she shares a non-familial and legally unrecognized bond."

Lorenzo laughs, and it comes out as a huff. "Really, someone that important and she can't even shoot for a score higher than a seven?"

"She doesn't have a mentor, don't be cruel," Jachima says. "Can we do that, Annia?"

"We're not cartoon villains," Annia says. "She makes it past the bloodbath, her girlfriend gets the stipend."

"Girlfriend," Lorenzo scoffs.

"I'll send you out if you like," Annia declares without looking up from her clipboard. "I won't have that in my control room."

He mutters an apology.

If there's one thing Annia is positively militant about, it's homophobia. You'd think she was gay herself.

The girl, onscreen, seems very ill-suited to the interview, and equally uncomfortable in her gown as Renata from District 4. Her very short hair leaves little to do stylistically, and the color of her dress – a brassy gold – does nothing for her complexion.

"Well, I'm not, uh, having a bad time," she says cautiously.

"That's not what I was – isn't there anything you're enjoying about the Capitol?"

"Sort of, uh, I mean, it's not bad, I just… I have been preoccupied."

You can tell she hasn't been coached well. The mentor disparity is really evident in some of the districts. We should do something about that, in theory – in practice, it's a lot of bureaucratic hurdles to change the smallest thing about the Games, so that's not likely.

As the interviews drag on, it's getting more and more difficult to pay full attention to the proceedings. Annia will get mad at us if we pull out our personal computers and start doing something else – there's nothing to do but watch the interviews or talk about them.

I mean, it's better than being cooped up and working data entry or something, but only slightly. I know some people would just about kill for this position, but so much of it is just mind-numbingly boring.

Finally, the bell delivers Bian back to her seat, and her partner, Andre, takes her place in a fitted gold suit that makes him look like a tiny and peculiarly dressed CEO.

"Is there anything particularly outstanding about either of them?" Jachima asks.

"Frankly, no," Annia says, again checking her omniscient clipboard. "Both random selections. Bian has a seven, as you remember, Andre scored a three. He's very young and not especially coordinated."

"That's always a shame," Palama comments.

He's one of the more awkward types onstage with Leona – already seems to be sweating a lot under the lights, which I'm aware are hot, but this is clearly a case of bad nerves. If anyone could have used a coach, it's this one.

"So he's likely bloodbath, then," Lorenzo suggests. "How about the girl – do we help her through if necessary?"

"I think we do," Annia says. "Not just to help her and whoever Omri is – the Career pack needs someone to track while our outer-district alliances are getting established. Gives them some time to build intrigue and drama or, you know, fail to, as we're deciding who to focus on."

Lorenzo makes a noise of assent, but has no further comment. Onscreen, the bell rings, signaling the end of Andre's few minutes of attention.

"Next up is Ten – we've got that little girl, Charlotte, and then our outer district villain, Samil."

"The villain really does make the year, remember Corsage?" Jachima notes.

How could I forget Corsage – a mentor now, he spends half his time leaning on different Gamemakers, usually apprentices, for anything from information to a deal cut on sending sponsored goods.

"I love a good district villain," Annia sighs. "It's just so played out, focusing like that on a trainee. I talked it over with the President – Cora is our fallback, if something happens with Samil. I hope it won't happen, though."

"Really, Cora? Not Manari, or maybe even Yuna from Six? I mean, if she really is going to go the poisoning route, audiences love to hate a poisoner," Palama suggests.

"Cora's weird, but doesn't seem to have a mean bone in her body," Jachima follows up helpfully. "We would know, we watched her break a lot of them in her private session."

"Manari's too principled. Yuna from Six is even less likely to make it through a significant portion of the Games than Samil," Annia explains. "And Cora is a wild card. If we play her right, there's a very definite cliff of stability we could knock her off."

"I hate the crazy villain character we sometimes run," Lorenzo sighs. "They're fun, of course, but it's just so… well, it's not creative. There's no art to it. It looks great in post, but watching the raw footage, it's so _depressing_."

"Yeah. To really push her over the edge, we'd have to – what, kill off Marcus?"

"That's what I was thinking," Annia sighs. "Yes, it's depressing. So let's get _Samil_ right and Cora can do her thing without our intervention."

I've barely been paying attention as the District 10 girl, Charlotte, has begun her interview – in an adorable blue-and-white gingham dress, her long blonde hair tied into plaits, looking positively adorable. She must have gotten some coaching on her angle, because she's keeping soft-voiced and with her gaze lowered, but not quite afraid.

"I understand it's how He wills it," she's saying onscreen. "I trust His plan, and I don't have any bad feelings about things."

"So, the Capitol has been treating you well?" Leona asks.

"Well, of course," Charlotte says, smiling slightly. "It's been real fine. And there's good people here. Lots of us are going to heaven, so I know I won't be lonely."

"Yes, you have a lot of fine competitors," Leona says, emotively.

"I sure do," Charlotte replies. "I trust it'll go just like God wants it to go. The good people will win, not the mean ones. They usually do, after all."

Jachima seems disaffected by the girl's demeanor, but comments, "I don't know what she's playing at, here – sponsor appeal? Or is she really just ready to die?"

"There's a lot of religion in Districts Nine and Ten," Lorenzo notes. "That sort of sprung up before the Rebellion. In the old times. It's carried through for them. So sometimes we do get these tributes who just want to _accept_ it, y'know? She must be a random pick."

Annia nods affirmation. "She's a random pick. Sometimes we get more of the young ones than in other years. Just luck of the draw. Barring something strange, they'll be bloodbath eliminations."

In my two years here – this will be my third Games onboard – I've never seen someone thirteen or under make it past the third day. One younger girl in my first year hid in the Cornucopia, but the trainee pack took her out immediately when she finally tried to bolt on the first evening.

"It really has been awful nice," Charlotte is saying, and the bell rings – she stands up, looking as tiny as a doll.

"A shame," Jachima says. "She seems like a good kid."

"Samil's next," Annia replies. "I want all eyes on the screen. Anything more we can learn – I want a lot of comments."

Around the table, I can feel and hear nods and murmurs of assent.

There he is – in an oddly dapper blue checkered suit, which looks out of place with both the background research Annia has shown us and his performance in the private session. There is definitely something off about his face – a wide brow combined with a cruel set to his mouth, maybe. Something unsettling, whether you're watching him slash at a dummy or make his way towards Leona for a short interview.

She doesn't outwardly appear to register discomfort when he goes in for a handshake, but that could just be her affect. After the preceding conversation, every eye in the control room is trained on the massive screen – like, the sheer focus is so strong it's hard to believe he can't feel it.

"Good afternoon, Samil," Leona begins.

I wonder if I'm projecting what I know about him onto his face – because his grin strikes me as positively sharklike.

"Good afternoon," he replies.

"Let's get the big stuff out of the way – you brought in one of the highest scores this year, and definitely the most impressive of the outer districts. How do you feel about that, going in?"

"Well, a nine is a nine. It's nothing but what I expected."

Leona smiles. "Of course. Being from District Ten, you must have had plenty of time to learn your way around … a ranch? A processing facility?"

He clucks his tongue, shaking his head with the expression one might wear when reminding a cranky toddler they can't have cookies right before bed.

"Oh, Leona, stereotypes are ugly things."

"I… beg your pardon?"

"Can't a man improve himself for his own sake these days without being criticized for it?"

"I wasn't –"

"I'm sure you didn't realize what you were saying. Don't worry, I'm not holding it against you. But you should be more careful."

Leona looks perplexed and off-balance.

"Ah – okay, uh, your alliance with Damask from District Eight has really captured our attention, could you elaborate on that?"

"There's not much to elaborate on. I know what I'm doing."

He smiles again, seemingly realizing he should probably throw Damask a bone here.

"Of course, we make a good team. That's the important thing. I like people who can keep it real and know where they stand. Those are rare qualities these days."

"Okay, and –"

"I wasn't done, my god, woman, make up your mind. Your attention has been 'captured' but you can't even let me get through a sentence or two without interrupting?"

Throughout these exchanges, the crowd has displayed mixed reactions. No doubt he's gaining a lot of traction with Leona's many critics, but his flippancy and … it can really only be meanness … are very much on display, too. Hence the confusion about how exactly to respond.

"Ah, I'm sorry," Leona says hesitantly. "There's not much time left. Is there anything you'd want to tell someone back home or perhaps the Capitol viewers?"

He barks a harsh laugh. "What, want me to be like 'mama, I made it'? Just watch me _. Pay attention_. If that's not too hard for you, Leona."

The bell rings, and with it, I can actually feel the tension decrease in the control room.

"What a piece of … work," Jachima says.

"I'll say," Lorenzo replies. "I mean, you gotta give it to him –"

"Under no circumstances do you 'gotta give it to him'," Annia interrupts, appalled. "Have you seen his record?"

She leafs through her clipboard. "Assault rumors, assault accusations – all from young women. Incidences of battery. The District Ten registrar was practically begging us to get him out of there."

Lorenzo pulls a face. "Okay, that's pretty awful."

"I'm honestly almost more worried about the extent of what he'll end up doing in the arena than I am about whether he'll make it far enough to be a proper villain," Annia sighs.

"Yeah, we'll have to … watch him," Jachima says.

"And that's exactly what he seems to want," Palama adds gloomily.

"Well, chins up, pull yourselves together, we just have District Eleven left to get through – then we can all go home and have nightmares about how this will bite us in the ass," Lorenzo declares.

"Language," Annia chides.

Onscreen, the girl from District 11 is joining Leona – she really is a striking kind of beauty, with a strong jaw and strong features beneath dark skin. Her braided hair is complemented with a wreath of flowers and her dress, too, is cream-colored chiffon set with hundreds of living flowers. She's tall and statuesque – not quite as slender as some outer-district tributes can be, but carries herself proudly, with a slight cant upwards of her chin.

"Hello and welcome, Dasheen!" Leona is announcing.

"Good afternoon," Dasheen says politely. "Hey, quick question, what the fuck is that last guy's problem?"

Laughter from the audience – more a sound of relief at hearing their thoughts expressed than anything.

Leona laughs. "Already at odds with some of the competition, I see!"

"I mean, just the assholes."

More laughter from the audience – Dasheen smirks and checks her nails, which are painted the same color off-white as her gown and set with little flowers.

"Well, you certainly have some strong opinions about the other contestants, it would seem!"

"Oh man, don't you know it," Dasheen says. "Who does that off-brand fetal-stage Dick Lorca-with-a-worse-hairpiece headass even think he is?"

A few heads swivel to take in Annia's reaction – we all know she despises Richard Lorca, the bombastic businessman who's recent turn to politics has involved some comments about women, particularly President Lancaster, that some would consider 'derogatory' or 'gross'.

While I'm largely ambivalent about the guy – I think he talks some sense about regime change and not letting Lancaster become an absolute authority or an eternal president like the last one, and he's strangely compelling as a speaker for his brashness – I would never say that out loud, especially in earshot of Annia. She's fiercely defensive of President Lancaster.

It's also odd to hear a tribute commenting on Capitol politics – Dasheen has picked that up, no doubt, since she's been in the Capitol, which speaks highly of her intelligence.

Back onscreen, Dasheen is laughing – like, genuine full-body laughing, seemingly at one of her own jokes.

"I mean," she says, wiping a tear from her eye and slightly smearing her makeup, "I'm more than my sparkling wit, of course, but it's my favorite part of me."

Leona smiles. "How much will it help you in the arena?"

"Well," Dasheen says, "I pulled a six, which isn't too shabby, and I'm tougher than I look, which is saying something, because I have like half a foot on most of these fuckin tough guys who've come up here blustering about how great they are."

The crowd has grown tremendously responsive throughout her interview – clearly, they're loving Dasheen.

"It sounds like you'll have no shortage of support," Leona says, gesturing to the cheering crowd.

Dasheen grins and waves – "Hey, thanks guys!" she exclaims. "I won't let you down – stay tuned for more incisive commentary and general winning!"

The bell rings, and she returns to her seat, positively beaming.

"And that," Annia says, letting out a low whistle, "is the power of a good mentor."

"Cereus and Sharon are the ones who coach District Eleven, right? They're amazing," Jachima says.

"We can't discount the girl herself," Palama reminds the room. "A lot of that was her. She has talent. She's smart."

"There's a reason I had her score rounded up rather than down," Annia explains. "I sort of wanted to give her a fighting chance – and a six plays into the angle she's been working. I like her."

Lorenzo snorts. "Of course you do. She's down there saying exactly what you're thinking."

Annia smiles and shrugs innocently. "Maybe. Just one more to go. Statice, her partner. The clever one."

In a well-tailored white suit with what looks like pressed flowers ironed on at the trimming, Statice joins Leona – not looking totally out of place, but definitely without the innate charisma and sense of space that Dasheen exhibited.

"Hello, Statice!" Leona begins excitedly, somehow still bouncy after this whole long ordeal of interviews.

"Hello!" He replies politely.

"Your partner really is a character," Leona comments. "How's that been going, the two of you being allied?"

"Pretty well, actually – you wouldn't guess it, perhaps, but we complement each other."

"I can guess – brains and brawn?"

Statice laughs and adjusts his glasses. "Both brains. Different kinds of brains, though."

"So you're bringing something of your own to the table?"

"Clearly, yes. I have some talents that I don't feel any need to elaborate on yet, but that anyone interested should definitely keep an eye on."

"How exciting!" Leona emotes. "The Games are almost underway. How are you feeling about that?"

"I mean, some trepidation is par for the course. I'm not so into the whole violence thing, but I do love being alive. It's powerful motivation, y'know?"

The audience doesn't adore him the way they adored Dasheen, but he's definitely getting laughs at the right moments and hitting the right key, to boot.

"Sure sounds like it!" Leona says. "We're so excited to have you here, Statice, I can't wait to see what you'll do."

"Wish I could say I was as enthusiastic," he laughs. "but at least I'm being honest when I tell you: I'm ready."

The bell rings. Finally, the last one. Usually Leona makes a few closing comments, but also usually Annia turns off the screen and ignores her.

The screen goes black before Leona can even start talking.

"So," Annia says briskly. "What have we got? Someone give me a breakdown."

"Okay," Jachima says. "We've got our trainee alliance, all six of them good to go, with some strain around Angel from Four, potentially, but nothing alliance-ending. Both the Three pair and the Eleven pair are district allies, and while the Threes are probably stronger contenders, the Elevens will give them a run for their money, especially with sponsors. The little Seven girl and the pharmacist from Six will bear watching, and the messy Eight-Ten alliance between that younger boy and Samil may implode quickly, but hopefully it'll be violent enough to draw a lot of viewer interest."

"All true," says Annia. "What else?"

"The lone wolves of interest will probably be Bian from District Nine and Oliver from District Seven," an apprentice Gamemaker volunteers. "Assuming they survive the bloodbath."

"That's right," Annia replies. "And we'll help Bian along a little if necessary and then set the trainees after her."

A lot of nodding going on at this table right now. I decide to join in.

"Any chance we can get home now?" Lorenzo asks plaintively. "I feel like we've been in this room for a week."

Annia nods. "Rest up, all of you. It'll be a very early day tomorrow. The techs are working round the clock to iron out any last details with the arena, remember them when you're congratulating yourself with a glass of wine for a job well done."

The whole room murmers assent and quickly begins to filter out – I stuff my notepad in my bag and book it, hoping I won't have to speak to anyone on my way out.

A long day. Tomorrow will be even longer, but at least the action will finally get started.

x

 _It's finally hitting me that, after two years, this is one of my last chapters of pre-games… I might do one more chapter, to the tune of 'the night before', that would cover the D2 boy and … I'd think of someone else important. I think I'd have the Careers throw a party and then… I dunno, interesting things are happening all the time. Sorry I haven't managed anything else in Samil's POV, I understand him very well but it's exhausting to get myself into that brain._

 _I glow with pure delight when I receive literally any review, so another huge thanks to those who've done so! Let me know how y'all'd feel about an additional chapter of pre-games. Would that be like, pleasant, or would you rather they just start killing each other?_


	31. Final Night

_Note: last pre-games chapter! Thanks for sticking with me this far. :)_

x

Thou didst thy crust with me divide,  
Thou didst thy cloak around me fold;  
And, sitting silent by thy side,  
I ate the bread in peace untold:

Given kindly from thy hand, 'twas sweet  
As costly fare or princely treat  
On royal plate of gold.

'The Wood', Charlotte Brontë

x

Final Night

x

Marcus Ota, District 2

"Jewel's throwing a party in the District One quarters," I suggest.

Cora is doing push-ups on the carpet next to her bed. We've spent most evenings either in her bedroom or in mine – it's weird, being around our mentors as almost-equals. Neither of us is fully comfortable spending recreational time in their view. The District 2 quarters have remained vacant throughout most of our stay.

"Can six people really be called a party?" Cora asks, her voice coming out in huffs between repetitions.

I laugh. "Fair. It's just a chance to chill out and drink wine and like … I don't know, I guess it's a bit tactical for her, puts us on her turf, y'know."

She flops down on the floor, probably somewhere after fifty.

"How are your hands?" I ask.

Cora holds her palms up for me to see. "Those injections they gave me are like magic."

"Claudia said not to pull anything like that again," I chide her. "They're experimental drugs. Can give you all kinds of cancer in addition to healing."

"Oh _no_ ," Cora cries in mock horror. "Cancer? In ten to fifteen years, what _ever_ will I do?"

She's actually really funny, when she's comfortable. Unfortunately, she's never comfortable outside the room. Cora-on-edge is erratic and confusing, a perpetually cornered animal always on the edge of fight-or-flight. Cora on familiar ground, though, with someone she recognizes as a friend, is quick-witted, clever, and surprisingly kind.

"What even did you do, to fuck them up that bad?" I ask, scooting to the edge of her bed to get a better look at her – admittedly, completely healed – fingers.

"Punched through a dummy bare-handed," she says proudly. "Ribs and all. Smashed open the skull, too."

I let out a low whistle. "You're a force to be reckoned with, you know that?"

"Mr. Eleven," she laughs. "You've beaten me before, remember?"

"One time," I say. "The first time. With the swords."

"Fucking rapiers," she sighs, sitting up on the carpet and leaning back against the foot of the bed, like she's remembering the day vividly. "Hate those things."

"I still have the scar," I say, showing her the white spot of tissue on my left bicep where she skewered me.

"Never got that taken care of at the clinic?" she asks, looking surprised. "If I kept all of mine, I'd look a real sight, let me tell you. I scar purple."

"They told me I didn't have to get it cleaned off if I didn't want to," I say, shrugging. "I figured the fewer surgeries the better, even the little ones. A guy in my year got cut from the pool after he wound up with a bad infection after a reconstructive surgery on his knee."

She shudders at the thought. "Horrible. I never think about that stuff. Just go with what they tell me."

"Guess they were willing to invest more into keeping you looking pretty than me," I laugh.

"You don't need any help. The scars just add to it. Man of mystery."

"Did they let you keep any?" I ask idly, knowing that Cora has picked up more than her share of catastrophic wounds throughout training.

"Just these."

She shifts to her feet, turning to face me – rolls up her loose-fitting grey shirt.

Thick stretches of vivid purple scar tissue break up the chiseled lines of her pale abdomen – one straight down the middle of her, seemingly having swallowed up her naval, a smaller one cutting across to her right, and a third lower down that stretches below the waistline of her shorts.

"Shit," I whisper. "Who did it?"

"Surgeons, when I was just a kid."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Don't be. They're uglier than they should be. I healed a little funny, too fast."

"May I -?" I ask, gesturing at the wicked scars.

"Be my guest," she says. "I can't feel them – pretty much my whole stomach, I can't feel when anything touches it. Or like, stabs it. Central nervous system damage, the doctors say."

I brush my fingers down the biggest scar, the one that seems to split her in halves – true to what she said, she's entirely unaffected, doesn't flinch or react at all. Though it's a dramatic purple color, the scar is flat with the normal skin, feels barely any different than the rest of her.

"Wow," I say. "So you've already survived more than most of us put together, huh?"

"You'd be surprised," she laughs.

I can't say I didn't expect her to have some kind of bizarre backstory. There's no other way to explain what a bizarre person she seemed to be in training. Energetic, frantically so at times. Boundlessly eager to please. Impossible to beat in weaponless combat. In a fair fight, hand-to-hand, she was pretty much unstoppable. Could take hits she shouldn't have been able to.

Should've guessed it was something like this, honestly.

"Any other surprises you want to spring on me?" I ask lightly, half hoping she'll follow up with something new I can file away for future reference.

"Not really," she says. "I'm not that interesting."

I'm pretty sure she's not being fully forthcoming on this, but I can't blame her for that.

With a sigh, she tugs her shirt back down, covering up the dark scars again. You would never guess, even through the thin material of her grey shirt, what was underneath.

"Do we have to go to the party?" she asks plaintively, throwing herself inelegantly, face-first, onto the bed next to me. "I don't want to."

"What, don't you like Jewel?" I ask.

Actually, I haven't really gotten a good read on how Cora feels about our allies. I'm genuinely curious.

"She's… well, she's like most of the other girls from the final cut, but better, obviously," Cora says vaguely. "She's nicer to me than they were. It's unsettling."

"Unsettling?"

"Okay, and kind of fun, I gotta admit. She's really … she makes you feel good."

I nod agreement. She shoots me a nervous look.

"What, do _you_ like her?"

"I mean, of course," I say. "She's a great ally. She and Manari are probably our biggest competition, when it comes down to it."

"Obviously," Cora sighs. "And they're so _decent_."

" _We're_ pretty decent, too. You know they've had this same conversation about us, we don't have to feel bad about it. It's just how the Games work," I say, a little defensively.

"I'm not saying we should feel bad," she reassures me. "I'm just … I dunno, a little annoyed they're making it so difficult not to like them. It's so hard for me to make people like me."

I actually have to bite back a laugh. "What are you talking about? Everybody likes you. Back home, I mean. Literally everyone."

She looks taken aback. "The other girls…"

"They were competing against you. C'mon, did you think they were gonna play nice with the volunteer spot on the line?"

"They were pretty hard on me, Marcus."

"Because you were _winning_. They were _scared_. Oh my god, are you really walking around thinking you're not likeable? You have _everything_. The look, the talent – "

She pulls one of her pillows off the bed and cuffs me with it.

"Stop it," she complains. "Your flattery won't work on me."

Unfortunately for her, she's way too pale to hide the fact she's blushing.

I'm sincerely a little taken aback – here I was, working my ass off, envying her and everything she had handed to her, and she just … didn't realize it. Had so much else going in, wasn't playing that angle, was just floating along, doing her own eccentric thing.

Like, I'm not upset. I'm trying not to let it upset me. I know it'll fuck me over to get jealous, now. All I can do is look forward.

She squeezes the pillow to her chest. "I really don't want to go to the party, though. I just want to stay here forever."

"Are you trying to flatter me, now?" I ask. "Is my company really better than theirs?"

"Come on, Marcus, you know it is. You actually treat me like a person. You listen to me. I, uh … I really appreciate that. Most people don't do that."

She picks at a thread from the stitching of her pillowcase.

"Even my parents are always tiptoeing around me, like I'm some sort of alien or I'm made of glass or something. I thought it was just Claudia who… understood. But you do too, right?"

I nod, though I have no idea what she's getting at.

Like, I'm not exaggerating when I say people like Cora. It's District 2, people like pretty blonde girls, especially the kind who pull crazy training scores. She could have a third arm and speak only in riddles and people would still think she was great, if a little strange. She can afford to be strange.

Though I guess that could be a kind of loneliness, to be appreciated solely for a collection of traits you were born with, and have anything else just sort of be a drawback. I should understand better than anyone that it sucks to be judged based on what you were born into.

"I guess I do," I say.

She scoots closer to me – just to check the clock on her bedside table.

"It's only eight thirty. How long till they miss us?"

I half sigh, half laugh in response – "Cora, we're two thirds of the invitees. They've already noticed we haven't shown up."

" _Angel_ misses you," Cora says.

"Oh, don't start with me."

"I don't know If he wants to kiss you or _be_ you," she says.

"Don't be ridiculous," I reply. "Who would want to _be_ me?"

This makes her laugh so abruptly that it comes out a surprised sort of snort – she looks horrified at having made such a noise.

I don't think what I'm doing is manipulating her. It would be worse if I had started with this push to get closer and realized I didn't actually like her, but that's not what happened. I'm not lying to anyone, not her and not to myself, and though Aaron and Claudia seem a little confused, this … thing … that we have going on, whatever it is, clearly isn't tipping off any alarm bells for anyone. People are buying it. I'm buying it.

More importantly, Cora is.

"We're gonna be in the arena so soon," she's saying, contemplatively, so close she's practically up against my arm. "Why do we have to spend our last few hours here pretending to have fun at some party?"

Practically, I know that we should be pulling out all the stops to connect with our allies in District 1 and District 4. There's a part of me that sees where she's coming from, though.

Some things about Cora are so complicated, but some of her is just unbelievably simple and straightforward. She doesn't waste any time with lying or misrepresenting herself, even though she could probably benefit from a little more tact and a little more attention to the impacts of her actions. She doesn't seem to want anything from me but company and conversation, a distraction from whatever hell she has inside her head that makes her act so strangely.

Even if I am, I guess, using her, a little, it's not in a bad way. Not the way most guys would in my situation. She's really beautiful, after all. That's probably the only thing keeping my conscience from feeling too heavy to do this.

That, and the fact she's not stupid – there's a good chance she herself, on some level, already knows what my motives are. If that's the case, then she seems happy to play along.

"Let's make it to the final two," she says, interrupting my train of thought.

I laugh. "Sounds good."

"No, seriously, rematch. Think about it. We're one for one on fights in training, we should make one more go of it, winner takes all."

"Well, that _is_ the point of the Games. The 'winner takes all' thing."

She rolls over, props herself up on her embows, looks me in the eye. "Promise me you'll make it to the final two with me?"

Her tone is so serious, I have to try really hard not to laugh again.

"I swear on my life," I say.

"Great!" she says, bouncing back up, on her feet now, practically skipping over to her Capitol wardrobe. "What should I wear to the party? A dress, do you think? I don't want to look less fancy than you."

I'm still in my white button down from the interviews, though with a few more buttons fastened, but I've traded my slacks for more comfortable denim pants.

"Sure," I say. "A dress should be fine."

I turn away respectfully as she changes, sitting up – thinking to myself how bad it would have looked if someone had walked in on both of us on her bed, what kind of incorrect impression of the situation they might have gotten. We've been playing a bit at having that kind of alliance – in front of others, during the interviews – but it's not actually in that zone.

Like, I feel bad enough about maintaining such platonic closeness as, it feels like, means to an end. There'd be no end to the guilt of asking anything more from her.

Even if I get the vibe she might be willing.

I don't want to push.

"Ta-da!" she announces, spinning in a floaty knee-length white cotton dress with a pattern of little yellow flowers.

"You look like some kind of preacher's daughter or something," I laugh.

A suspiciously muscular one, but I'm not wrong.

"Exactly!" she says. "I'm so wholesome."

"You punched a ballistics gel dummy to death so hard you broke half the bones in your hands," I remind her.

"Yeah, I feel like I need to balance that out. Keep everyone guessing."

I chuckle ruefully. She's definitely succeeding at that goal.

"So you're ready to head over, then?" I suggest.

"Mhm."

"Let's tell Claudia we won't be back too late, then hop in the elevator," I say, standing up and stretching in my just-slightly-too-tight button down.

"That's smart, we shouldn't worry her. Though I bet she knows about the party by now."

As long as we're not going into the arena exhausted, our mentors should be okay with pretty much anything we decide to do. Between us, throughout training, Cora and I have surpassed expectations – done everything they've asked of us, to the best of our ability. We really are the best of what District 2 has to offer, this year, at least.

As a pair, they'll love us, back home. I've made sure of that – I may not be the classic District 2, but Cora is, and she needs me for stability and companionship just as much as I need her for legitimacy and image.

Maybe not the model of a perfect relationship.

But I think we're the best that either of us can do.

x

Fidan Said, District 7

"You _sure_ you don't want to come up to the roof with me, Ollie?" I ask.

"I _told you_ not to call me that," he complains, looking like he's about an inch away from tossing his empty glass at me.

"Suit yourself," I say, a little dramatically, making eye contact with our mentor, Saxaul, who has been on me to include Ollie more during training, at least, since he's not going to be in my alliance with Yuna.

"You meeting up with your ally?" Saxaul asks, glancing up from something that he's reading on a tablet in his lap.

"Yeah," I explain, "and some other district kids. We heard the Careers were having a party and we wanted to do our own. A counter-event, if you will."

"Be careful," he advises me. "Did you and Yuna come up with this?"

"It was actually District Eleven," I say. "The girl, Dasheen, is the one who planned it."

"Don't get too attached to anyone you're not allied with," Saxaul sighs. "And don't let your guard down for a second. District Eleven is calculating, they're loyal only to each other."

"What, you don't like their mentors?"

Cereus, the one who won a few years back – he's stayed in the spotlight since then – is pretty hot. In like, an older guy way. Not gonna lie. I don't have any opinion on District 11 beyond that.

"No, actually. We don't get along. They're too chummy with the trainee district mentors for my liking."

"Huh," I say.

"That doesn't leave the room, Fidan," he cautions me.

"Cross my heart and hope to die," I say. "Can I go now? And actually, can I bring a bottle of wine if I promise not to drink any? I want them to think I'm cool."

Saxaul chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief. "You're a piece of work, you know that?"

"So can I?"

"Fine," he sighs. "But not too late, and don't be drinking. You've seen what that stuff can do to you."

He shoots Ollie a slightly annoyed glance, but my partner doesn't seem to notice.

"Awesome! Bye!" I say, grabbing one of the unopened bottles off the table and making a beeline for the door before Saxaul can change his mind.

The elevator is empty as I punch the top floor button, labeled 'PH' for some reason. I don't know a lot about buildings, especially not the fancy high-tech type like I've been encountering since arriving at the Capitol, but I gotta say, I get why people want to live like this.

Even if I might ultimately prefer my dream – a nice, clean little house near the woods, maybe alone or maybe with someone I love – this sort of plush comfort is nothing to turn up your nose at.

From the top floor, there are a few corridors to navigate before I can reach the door that leads to a little tucked-away staircase and then the roof.

It's funny. They say the Mockingjay Rebellion started on this very same roof, over twenty years ago. They don't ban us from it or anything. Just, I think, have made some improvements since then on its surveillance.

Yuna brought that up when Dasheen invited us to her 'counter party'. The girl from District 11 didn't seem to care who was filming – just shrugged and said 'let them watch us have a good time while they sort through the world's most depressing footage'.

To be fair, anyone who's not invited or not coming is probably having a pretty depressing night. I cried a bit on the train, of course, and sometimes it sort of hits me in waves what's about to happen to me, but overall I'd call myself in pretty good spirits. You can't say that for people like Jean from District 8, or, well, any of the really young ones. And I don't know what is up with those two guys – Samil and Damask – but Dasheen refused to invite them 'on principal' and I think I agree with that call.

They both creep me out a little, especially the older one. And he was so mean to Leona. Just doesn't seem like the sort of person I'd want to spend any time with, like, ever.

I finally find the little service door that leads to the staircase, after wandering around a little – feeling kind of exposed with the bottle of wine, since I'm probably not supposed to have it, even though I bet I could sort of club someone with it.

The idea of hurting someone is probably the biggest thing that's got me freaked out about the Games. I'm actually pretty confident in my ability – and Yuna's – to just run away. But we could totally end up in a situation where we had to hurt someone! And I just can't dwell too long on that.

At the end of the cramped staircase, I open the final door and – ahhh, for the first time in a while I can feel the wind on my face! It's wonderful.

"Hey, District Seven! You made it!" I hear Dasheen call.

"Is that a nickname, or did you just forget?" I ask, a little teasingly.

"Totally forgot," she says, laughing. "And you brought wine? Damn, maybe I should've tried harder on the name thing. Phoebe?"

"Fidan" I say, handing her the bottle. "Guest gift, from both me and Yuna."

"Quite a couple, you two," Dasheen laughs. "Glad to see you're settling in."

"Yeah, we've been nesting. Just in time for the arena."

She sighs. "I'm trying to keep it light, but like, it's on everyone's mind, y'know?"

"What's on everyone's mind, the murder games that are about to kill at very least all but one of us? No, they're preoccupied about that?" I ask, feigning surprise, hoping it'll make her laugh again.

It does – she fully cracks up. Well done, me!

"You came at just the right time," Dasheen says. "It's me and Statice and Bridget and Dion just hanging out right now, and let me tell you, it's awkward as fuck. I didn't think this through at all."

As she says their names, she gestures at the pair from District 3 in turn.

"I think that's an overstatement of the awkwardness," the tall District 3 boy says with what can only be called a chuckle. "We're getting along just fine."

"What do you guys think the Careers are doing?" I ask.

"There's only six of them," Statice, Dasheen's partner, says. "How much fun can they be having?"

"In fairness, there's only five of us, so … glass houses," Dasheen laughs.

"They got that weird incest-y vibe going on," Bridget says, wrinkling her nose. "I mean, the kind of party that only needs six people…"

Dasheen feigns shuddering in horror.

"I'm sure it's not that bad," I volunteer.

"C'mon, Fidan, they're gonna be killing us tomorrow, I think we can take our digs at them where we can get 'em," Dasheen argues.

"That's fair," I say.

"How have you guys been liking the Capitol? Like, actually, not in the interview-bullshit way," Dion asks. "Also, Dasheen, you gonna open that wine?"

It's a screw-top – easy enough work for her, and she passes it to Dion after taking the first drink herself.

"I dunno," Statice says. "They try really hard to get you to enjoy it. And our mentors are really great."

"I've heard," I say. "Cereus and Sharon have a real rep already."

I neglect to mention that Saxaul's comments on them were not universally positive. I did promise him I wouldn't narc.

"They live up to it," Statice says, and Dasheen nods agreement.

"It's kind of amazing how people live here," Bridget says, a little absently, staring out at the skyline. "I hear it was even worse before the Mockingjay Rebellion. They've had to tone it down a bit."

" _This_ is toned down?" Dasheen says, dubious.

"Yeah. Not as many avoxes running around, and the fashion and whatnot has been limited a lot. Less ostentatious."

"Hm. I guess I get the logic of that," Static says. "They talk a whole lot about the honor of honest labor. It'd be hypocritical for them to be living it up on our backs – I mean, I guess it already sort of is, but the less they're conspicuously consuming the better it looks."

"You sound like Dion," Bridget sighs. "He attributes the worst possible motives to everyone, especially the Capitol."

"Hey, I'm realistic," Dion complains, "and also right."

"Is Yuna planning on joining us and making our numbers a little less depressing?" Dasheen asks me, agilely changing the subject.

"I thought she said she was down," I say with a shrug. "Might have gotten held up with her mentor?"

"It's like … nine," Dion says, checking a battered watch at his wrist.

"How long are we planning to stay out here?" Bridget asks. "I mean, no offense, but it's kinda cold and like, we might die tomorrow and shit."

"What," Dasheen asks, "not the rollicking good time you envisioned?"

"I mean," Dion laughs, "the lady did say 'no offense'."

"And none taken!" Dasheen says, more than a little defensive, raising her palms in mock surrender.

It's interesting, how little moments like these seem to show the lines of tension between even the outer-district tributes who ought to be able to get along. We can act like we're working together and sharing solidarity against the trainee districts as much as we want, but there's always gonna be an undercurrent of not-quite-trust.

Somewhere along the line we got taught not to trust people from other districts, which you can especially see in the way people treat Districts 3 and 11. Apparently the way they treat each other, too.

"Great!" Bridget says.

"Yeah, great!" Statice echoes. "We're all friends, here, guys."

Maybe Yuna's not going to show – maybe it would be better if she didn't. Seeing how these pairs interact – how rigidly allegiance seems to be divided by district, even in the most casual of social settings …

Well, it's the first thing that's really cast doubt on me and Yuna. She seems so nice, and smart. But she hasn't even shown up for the thing she said she would with me. I dunno if we're gonna have a chance to talk about it before the arena, and it doesn't seem like the right talk to have once we're running for our lives.

I dunno. I really hope things are going to be okay.

"Is there still wine?" I ask. "Can you pass it this way?"

I just … don't want to be thinking about this right now. I want to go back to cracking jokes and laughing with Yuna. This was a bad idea. But I don't know how to un-realize that our alliance might not be as strong as I think it is.

x

 _So, be advised - I'm just about done with the bloodbath._

 _I'm curious if I've done a reasonably good job covering everyone fairly? Like, I've been mostly just doing what's interesting to me and hoping it's interesting to y'all, but I'm always here for y'all's feedback, especially since I'm gonna be perspective-shifting a lot in the arena._

 _Like, are y'all sitting back there like 'ugh c'mon I want to hear about how Bian is doing this is bullshit' or do things seem reasonably well distributed?_

 _I'll probably do three different perspectives in the bloodbath to get a good idea of everything that goes down - from there, though, I might switch to one perspective per ~2,500 word chapter, but updated reasonably frequently._


	32. Day 1: Bloodbath

Day One: Bloodbath

x

This is the hour of lead  
Remembered if outlived,

As freezing persons recollect the snow-  
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.

'After Great Pain, A Formal Feeling Comes', Emily Dickinson

x

Trace Posner, District 5

It's dark and quiet underground, just waiting in the tube for something to happen. I'm not sure if all of the warmth and moisture has something to do with the climate aboveground or if it's just my quick, nervous breaths that are making the air heavy and moist. It doesn't smell very good here. Just a whiff of rotting things behind every breath.

That must be the arena. I know I don't smell that bad. I showered this morning, too nervous to sleep a second longer once I was conscious. Aware of the preciousness of every second. I'm so scared of all of it. I hate being in this tube but I hate just as much the idea of what will come next, once the platform begins to raise me up into the place where I will die.

I'm dressed in comfortable but loose-fitting olive green pants made of some kind of light material with lots of pockets. My shirt is form-fitting cotton, a sort of light brown color. It's nothing I would ever wear back at home, between speaking competitions and classes and home, but it's good camouflage colors. And the getup comes complete with comfortable brown running shoes with thick, springy soles.

I wonder idly how Doreen is holding up, in some similar tube somewhere just a few tens of yards away from me. This confined space seems like exactly the sort of environment that would set off her panic – I hope she's not panicking. I wish I had more of an ally, the sort of person I could team up with, as they have in some of the other districts, but … there's nothing bad about Doreen, she's just not all here.

Every few seconds I think I feel the jolt of the rising platform only to find that the hammering is just the pounding of my heart. _Soon_ , I keep thinking. Soon. Both too soon and not soon enough.

In most arenas, the raised platforms semi-circle the Cornucopia. I figure my best bet is to just turn around and bolt before any trainee or otherwise dangerous contender notices me – to just head in the opposite direction of where they face me, to just _go_. If I can just get out, outlast the bloodbath, maybe get some support from sponsors or track down water – I can … well, all I can do is play it by ear, actually. But I'll do that. I'll just take it moment by moment. Getting out takes priority.

Finally, I can actually feel the platform shift. Slowly, incrementally, I can feel myself rising within the tube, borne up by the metal plate on which I'm waiting. I think I left my stomach on the floor. My insides are constricting like knotted extension cords.

 _It's time_ , I think, steeling what little musculature I have in preparation. I'll run. Not too soon, don't want to get blown up. And I can't turn around right away and give away my intentions to just go in the opposite direction, that'll call attention to me. I just have to stand ready to bolt, then when the gong sounds after sixty seconds, turn and run. I can do that.

After what seems like an eternity in the darkness, I'm suddenly blinded by intense sunlight. The air above the tube is just as muggy and damp as the breaths I was taking down there. It feels like I'm standing in a tureen of soup. Squinting, I can make out sand and small clumps of vegetation. I can hear the sound of water – lots of water, bigger than a river like the ones we have in District 5. That same smell of rotting and salt.

To my right, I see the beautiful young man from District 2, focused with laser precision on the Cornucopia ahead of us. To my left, Jean, the girl from District 8, who I've had a few conversations with during training but nothing that actually got us anywhere, looks small and vulnerable on her platform.

I give myself a moment to turn and survey the surroundings, and my stomach sinks even further, if that's even possible.

There will be no 'turning around and running back' – our backs are to a massive body of tumultuous blue-grey water, with waves at least half again my height.

I'll have to go forward to get out of here.

The exact same direction that the trainee next to me will be going.

Okay. Fuck. Shit. Okay.

I just don't have enough time to think of any other plan. I have to just run. As fast as I can. _Maybe this will actually be a good thing_ , I think, my brain tripping over itself to rationalize the decision. _Maybe I can grab something_ – I'm pretty fast, right? I can grab something as I'm running. This is actually fine.

I'm trying to calm my breathing down. I'm gonna need to be as stable as I can be, I'm not built for distance running but once I'm out of here I'm not gonna stop. Shit shit shit. I wish this stupid water wasn't behind me and I could go with my original plan, this is gonna get me killed, I don't want to run in the same direction as the guy next to me who looks like he could probably punch my face in with one blow, he scored an _eleven_ for the love of god…

 _Breathe_ , Trace. _Breathe_.

Just gotta run. Maybe grab something good. Grab something as I run and keep going.

I scan the pile of supplies and the scattered items further from the mouth of the Cornucopia. There's a small red pack nestled next to a single small throwing knife in the approximate direction I'm planning to run – I don't let my eyes linger on it, but that's where I'll go. That's what I'll try to grab.

This is… this is actually good. It's actually good that I had to change plans. How long would I have lasted without water or food, anyway? Even if my plan got me out safely, I'd have, what, two days before I was on the ground dying of thirst? I doubt that the turbulent grey water at my back is safe to drink. This is okay. This is fine.

I don't know if I'm just, completely deluding myself, but this is really all I have left – the ability to rationalize, the little voice in my head that's trying to look out for me. I'm ready to run.

Has it been sixty seconds yet?

Just as I have that thought – the gong rings. Internally, I curse myself for overthinking, not being ready.

I run.

In my peripheral vision, I'm aware that the Career boy seems to be hanging back. Surely he can run faster than me. I can't expand my focus enough beyond the frames of my glasses to pay attention to anyone else running for the Cornucopia – I'm zeroed in on that red pack, as much because following it will guide me in the right direction to get the fuck out of here as because I want what's in it.

But I do, I realize, want what's in it. And the little knife. A throwing knife. I tried throwing knives in training for a bit – I wasn't incompetent, I have a good arm, I'm taller than most, it gives me pretty good leverage.

I can't tell what the District 2 boy is doing and that unsettles me.

Even more unsettling, the District 7 boy – the surly loner – has somehow gotten in ahead of me and made it to the supplies in the Cornucopia. He seems to be looking for something frantically – has gotten ahold of a weapon. He moved so fast!

I try to refocus on getting to the red pack, but right before my eyes, the District 4 girl appears in the mouth of the Cornucopia, grabs a hammer – before the District 7 boy can even respond, can even raise his hatchet in his own defense, she brings it down lightning-quick against his temple.

Thank god I'm not close enough to really see it, but I _hear_ it as his skull splits with a noise like a ripe melon.

Before his body falls, she's already gotten in another blow – for fuck's sake, he's already dead – and his handsome but brooding face is disfigured, orbital socket obliterated.

Where did the District 2 boy go?

I'm almost to the pack – I scoop up the knife, still running, get the pack, too – shit, that wasn't so hard!

Most of the Careers are at the Cornucopia now. I spare them a glance just in time to see that boy from District 6, the little one, Lucas, barely more than 13. What is he doing, running straight into the middle of them like that?

The District 4 boy, Angel, as I watch in horror, makes some gesture like he's crossing himself and then winds up with the sword he's picked up and sends the little boy crumpling to the sandy ground with a single powerful blow to the base of his skull.

I turn back to focus on running and – OH

That's where the District 2 boy went.

He's made his way carefully to the edge of the mouth of the Cornucopia, grabbing one very specific sword with a weirdly long hilt and a flat blade. He's in my way – my brain is working in overdrive, trying to figure out how I'm going to get around him.

I feel the knife in my hand.

What the fuck am I thinking, he got an _eleven_ – what did the District 4 boy say in his interview?

Anyone dies with a blade in their throat, eleven or not.

In the stupidest and most impulsive move of my life, I adjust my grip on the knife. I remember how to do this. I bring my hand back – he's not even looking at me, seems to be scoping out the field for his district partner, is meeting her eyes now, _not even looking at me_.

Maybe this is actually the smartest thing I've ever done. I'm barreling in his approximate direction, but I slow just enough to aim –

"MARCUS, NO!"

His partner spots me, too far away to stop me, but the District 2 boy looks up and shifts into a defensive stance – too late, I've already thrown the knife, though it's definitely not going quite where I wanted it.

I'm trying not to see the result, but I definitely hit him. Shit. Shit. There's no way that's enough to take him out, but maybe slow him down – I'm running so fast, I keep forgetting to breathe.

" _MARCUS_!"

Okay, maybe a bad move. Ahead of me, Marcus seems to have immediately shaken off whatever damage the knife did – "stay back, Cora!" he yells, then rounds on me.

Oh shit.

"For _fuck'_ s sake, man," he complains. "You were almost out."

I try to hold the red pack in a sort of defensive posture, wheel around and try to find another direction to run – only to see Cora, who still hasn't picked up a weapon, take my district partner Doreen by the hair and, in a single fluid movement, smash her by the face against the Cornucopia. Once, twice – showing no sign of stopping.

I'm about to throw up. Her beautiful dark hair is choked with blood and bits of bone and cartilage, her face unrecognizable.

Marcus is practically on top of me before I can properly react or even process – there's just too much going on. He stuns me with the hilt of his strange sword, knocking me to my knees.

"Anything to say?" he asks me – his tone remarkably even and gentle.

There's a tear in his tight brown shirt, some blood running from a shallow wound across his ribs. Nothing deep enough to do damage. Shit.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I tried."

"You sure did," he sighs.

I close my eyes so I don't have to watch as he cuts off my head.

x

Damask Bhatti, District 8

Samil put a target on his own back all through training, and now I'm seeing that bear out. The girl from District 2, the hot one, has caught up with us as he's insisted on running in and getting supplies – like, okay, I'm not gonna argue, but this is what fucking happens, right?

I don't know how to react. I freeze at her approach, rifling in the little yellow back I've grabbed for anything that might resemble a weapon.

Thank god, Samil knows what to do.

He pulls out a knife – I don't know where he got it, must have picked it up or found it in one of the packs – lunges in, and stabs her.

Shit!

She's reacted fast enough to avoid his hitting anything too important – he was aiming for her guts, but instead the blade sinks into her upper thigh with a noise like slicing into a raw steak. Instead of – I dunno, screaming or reacting or something, though, she just looks surprised for a second. Definitely not what he was expecting.

Then she knees him in the groin with her uninjured leg.

"Run, Damask!" he yells, doubling over. "Grab supplies and go!"

He doesn't need to tell me twice.

From the corner of my eye, I see her lift him by his collar – god, she is terrifyingly strong – and punch him, hard, in the face. I think I hear his nose break. I'm not looking back anymore. It's on _him_ to make it out of that one.

On my way to the sparse woods, most of the trees of which I don't recognize at all from home, I nearly trip over the corpse of the boy from District 9, the young one. Andre, I think it was. His skull has been caved in almost completely, some kind of big hammer by the looks of it.

Most of the Careers have already left the Cornucopia, sprinting off in pairs after the tributes who didn't go straight for the supplies. The more they kill now, the easier a time they'll have over the next few days, I guess. I don't see anyone holding a hammer about, so that makes me feel both better and worse about running off into the woods.

With no apparent threats immediately around me, I spare a glance back at Samil – he seems to have wormed his way out of the District 2 girl's grip. She's loping back to the Cornucopia with a bit of a limp, looking disappointed with herself, reconvening with her partner, the two of them immediately setting to work collecting and organizing the supplies – the boy working as the girl watches his back. I'm deep enough into the trees that they don't seem to see me.

I wonder where Samil went. I've got all of our supplies – my little yellow pack, the big blue backpack he probably got that knife from, and a baseball bat. I couldn't tell you what was in the packs, but they're definitely heavy enough.

Though I have no experience with the woods or nature or any of that shit, I'm suddenly stuck with the task of listening for any sign of movement around me. Amazingly, the coast seems clear. I skirt around the edge of the forested area – the ground seems to get swampier the further in one goes.

That, I realize, is probably a good thing for tracking. Since I'm not seeing any tracks around me, even in the soft mud, I'm pretty sure I'm alone for now.

But it'll be a while before I feel good about stopping. Even though my lungs are burning and I'm sweating more than I've ever sweat in my life, beneath this baking sun, in this pressure-cooker of an atmosphere, I know that behind me are some pissed-off Careers from District 2 as well as the pairs from Districts 1 and 4 who are … well, god knows where.

As I run, I try to pay attention to the terrain, which is flat and marshy, scattered with small vegetation with leaves shaped like giant green fan-hands. I'm not seeing many big animals, but I can hear a whole lot of insects, not to mention birds and general rustling that could be, well, wind, or just about anything.

I'm like, definitely not a nature guy. Never thought that would bite me in the ass quite this way.

I sorta wonder how Samil is doing. I saw he definitely made it out of that situation, but who knows what he's walking into next? The guy makes his own trouble, and while I can't say I don't admire him for it, in the first few hours we've been in the arena it's already starting to seem like less of a virtue.

But he's a good guy to have on your side. That's what it's gotta come down to with allies, I think – like, would I rather fight with him or against him? And I'd much rather not be against him. He's a bit of a wildcard when he's frustrated. I wouldn't want to see him really angry.

After – maybe half an hour? – I feel myself slowing even more. Skirting around the edge of the wooded area seems to be paying off. The ground is getting sandier and higher and the vegetation is shifting a good bit. I think we might be on some sort of peninsula – from this raised area, I can feel a sea breeze coming in, and it's not coming from my back. Hm.

I wonder how best to rendezvous with Samil. He'll be wanting the supplies. Where would he go? We talked about this a little in training – we should meet at high ground, if it's safe. This seems like a pretty straightforward area.

There's two light sleeping bags in the big backpack – _really_ light, like, barely more than a roll of foil. But I've seen enough people sleep strapped into trees to know how to make that work. I need to find a tree, probably – there are some big oaks around that I'm pretty sure I'll be able to climb – and then sort myself out. Quietly.

And then I'll wait, as long as the Gamemakers will let me wait. I don't think Samil will let me down – he's a really tough guy, he can get out of just about anything.

Most of the weight of the big pack is attributable to almost two quarts of water stowed inside – in the smaller pack, I find another pint, and decide to drink from that one. I'm sweating so much, I need to be careful about replenishing that water and keeping hydrated. I'm not sure how we're gonna get more water, but Samil will probably have a plan. He's the sort who has lots of plans.

I'm pretty sure everything's gonna work out once I find him. Like, obviously only one of us can win, but we'll have a better shot together, I think. And when it comes down to it … he did take a bit of a beating today, and he's a bigger target than I am.

So maybe I have a shot at being the one who walks away from this.

I'm not gonna let myself put too many eggs in that basket, but like… I don't not have a chance.

And for the moment, that's enough for me.

x

Dasheen, District 11

"Dude!" I hiss. "You can _not_ be following us right now!"

"I'm sorry!" Jean, the girl from District 8, sobs – though she sure as fuck doesn't stop keeping pace alongside me and Statice.

"You have to go!" I insist. "You'll get us all killed!"

She's been tailing us since the Cornucopia, acting like she's being all subtle – for real, girl didn't say a word to us during training, now she's gonna cling to us like an aphid to a milkweed just because we successfully grabbed some supplies before getting out?

"I got a bag," she's telling us tearfully, showing Statice her little purple backpack while stubbornly running just beside me, as if daring me to just fucking trip her or something to put a stop to this dangerous nuisance. "I can help you, please don't leave me alone, you didn't see what they're doing, there's so much _blood_ …"

"Look, Jean," Statice says, concealing his fear and annoyance much better than I'm concealing mine. "I hate to be blunt, but if you don't shut up, we're gonna end up bleeding too, okay?"

"Where could I even go?" she cries. "My partner hates me!"

"Not! Our! Problem!" I spit, exercising admirable restraint and not suggesting that I can understand exactly how her partner developed that point of view. "Just go! Somewhere else!"

It's increasingly hard to talk and run, and I'm getting extremely paranoid about every sound I hear in the brush. All three of us together must be leaving an unmistakable trail in this soft and damp earth. Every time we try to veer deeper into the forest, we end up sinking into the mud – Statice and I have silently agreed to stick to the fringes so we don't end up in a different kind of trouble than we're already in.

We were lucky – both in a good position to make a run for it from the fringes and completely avoid the trainees, grab some packs and go. We got out before the killing started, which, psychologically, has been good for us, I think. I'd be feeling pretty good about things right now if it weren't for Jean.

I try to meet Statice's eyes. _Can we kill her_?

It sounds insane, but this is also the Hunger Games. She'll die no matter what we do. What would Cereus say? What would Sharon say? I try to think without speaking or letting on – fuck, maybe I want her to know exactly what I'm thinking about! Maybe then she would leave! Horrible.

At least we're away from all the action. I have no idea if we're being followed or not – I've never spent any substantial amount of time in the woods or the trees, though these look like some vaguely familiar species. I idly realize we must not be too far from District 11, though it doesn't give me any comfort.

"What are you going to do?" Jean asks again.

As I turn around to hush her, so quickly as if to be by magic, a javelin sprouts from her abdomen.

She looks down in shock, stumbles forward a few paces, doesn't quite fall – though her lips, which keep moving in a mimicry of speech, are silent.

Terror grips me for a fraction of a second and I realize I've stopped running – bad. I grab Static by the wrist. "We have to go in."

He understands what I'm getting at. We change course, heading deeper into the swampy forest. I turn one last time to see blood frothing from Jean's mouth as she stumbles again and falls to her knees, hands scrabbling at the javelin that's skewering her like a piece of chicken on a grill.

From behind her, the forest parts, and there they are – the pair from District 1. The girl wrenches the spear from Jean, who is trembling like a leaf and spilling out blood and viscera. Her partner, the tall one, stoops behind Jean and – I don't even hardly see the weapon, but suddenly her throat is slit and she's not moving anymore.

I don't need to tell Statice to run like his life depends on it. The boggy ground, though, is nearly impossible to move quickly and safely on. Several times, one of us nearly trips or gets sucked in by the hungry earth. I'm sure they must be right behind us, but I can't think of any way to slow them down – maybe, I'm hoping, they'll just get tired if the terrain gets difficult enough? Turn tail and head back to their camp, or chase down easier prey?

Doesn't seem likely. I'm sticking to the running thing.

It could be thirty seconds passing or it could be fifteen minutes. Time doesn't feel real, with adrenaline coursing through my body and fear clouding my ability to think, let alone process some sort of abstract concept.

Finally, Statice trips – badly, this time – on an exposed cedar knee and goes sprawling into the mud.

"Shit," I murmur, already breathless, dropping to my knees to try to help him up.

The mud, here, has given way to ankle-deep murky water, and the canopy of the trees overhead is so thick that the only light that filters through is amber and seems as thick as the silt that coats the ground.

"Shit, fuck," I repeat.

Statice has lost his fucking glasses.

On the bright side, though, I can't hear anyone coming from behind us, so we have a second, at least, not to live in immediate fear of that javelin sprouting out from our soft tissue.

Oh, god. Jean. That was… horrible. I've never seen someone die before, not like that. It was Ginger who found our grandmother when she died in our house, and that was in her sleep, peaceful as anything… I never saw it. I hadn't really… thought about how I would see it. The smell of it. The sound, like a spoon in a bowel of thick porridge. How she gasped and frothed and she was alive thirty seconds before.

I had been _thinking_ about _killing_ her. Doing that to her _myself_.

I'm just so… confused, and lost, and scared, and all of these feelings are so alien to me, like the stitch in my side and the smell of hot blood.

Statice has found his glasses and is hurriedly cleaning the lenses off in the fetid water.

"Do we have weapons in the bags?" I whisper.

He pulls out a flimsy pocketknife – with a nice bottle opener, in case I decide I need to crack open some fancy wine between running for my life. In my pack, which is fairly large and dappled green-and-brown, like some camouflage patterns we learned in training, in addition to some food, a bedroll, and two bottles of water, I find a set of brass knuckles.

"Yikes," I comment. "Well, pick your poison, I guess."

We're sort of tucked up next to a big tree – even if the Careers chasing us just walked straight up, they probably wouldn't see us right away. What we'd do next … I dunno, say our goodbyes? Start trying to fucking brass-knuckle our way out?

Statice offers me the little knife and takes the brass knuckles. "I'll be useless with either of them," he says, apologetic.

"Don't feel bad," I sigh. "You literally can't be worse than Jean."

"Jesus fucking Christ," he sighs. "That was…"

"Horrible. That's the only word. Fucking horrible."

"Yeah. I've never seen, _that_ , y'know."

"Me neither."

"Let's try not to die," he says, putting on his glasses and adjusting them cautiously. "Should we leave, do you think? We can't just stay here."

"This is such a miserable fucking arena," I comment. "Where are we supposed to sleep? In the water? We're not soup."

"We will be after a day or two," Statice sighs, picking at his tight brown shirt, now plastered with mud and utterly soaked.

We're not being loud – I don't think we're being loud! But suddenly, a disturbance that can't be more than thirty feet away interrupts us and puts a stop to our quiet banter.

I pray for it to be a mutt – anything but who I know it is.

"Jesus, this is miserable." It's the distinctive throaty voice of the girl from District 1.

"We're set up on the only dry ground for at least a mile," her partner replies.

I make horrified eye contact with Statice – who raises his brass knuckles with a small smile.

We've gotten very good at communicating nonverbally throughout training. It feels like he's saying goodbye.

I shake my head. Not goodbye! We're not dead yet. This may be the closest we've gotten so far, but maybe… there's always a way out. For at least one of us.

They're getting closer. They've been tracking us.

Statice quirks his head – a question.

 _How are we gonna get out of this one, Dasheen?_ My imagination supplies his meaning.

Neither of us is gonna win this fight. I shake my head, knowing I'm about to do something stupid and impulsive and probably, finally, die for it. But what else is there to do? Die quietly in the mud or go out swinging.

First, in complete silence, I hand Statice my pack. Then I look him in the eyes and mouth 'run'.

He looks even more confused – then horrified as I stand, tiny pocketknife in hand.

"Hel _lo_ , District One!" I announce.

The girl's spear embeds itself in the cedar tree, not three inches from my ribcage.

I kick Statice, gently, in the side. _Run,_ dumbass.

While I'm fighting through both the ankle-deep water and every fiber of my being, which is screaming at me to run too as Statice reluctantly begins to scramble away, I also feel a profound sense of calm. Ready to ease back into my 'hilarious banter' element. When it comes down to it, I guess, that's always been my last defense.

"You missed me with that throw," I say. "I'm not saying it's racist that you can't tell me from a tree, but it's a little racist."

The girl – now she's only like twenty feet away, barely – actually laughs.

"I loved your interview!" she says. "You're hilarious!"

I just watched her kill a girl, so I'm not exactly dazzled by her bubbly affect.

"I do it all for the fans," I reply, slipping behind another tree.

She doesn't seem to have another spear – I hear her remove her weapon from the tree, and I curse my lack of foresight. Maybe I could have gotten away. No, I need to keep them here long enough for Statice to get somewhere safe and maybe even dry.

God, I hate that I care about whether he makes it or not.

"You really jumping on the grenade for your partner?" The District 1 girl asks. "Knowing him for what, a week?"

"I never said I was smart," I say, trying to move quietly despite the water. Leading them in the opposite direction.

"Not criticizing!" She laughs. "Hell, I think it's cute."

My blood would boil at that if my blood wasn't already practically boiling in the swampy heat.

"As cute as the girl you killed back there?" I ask.

"She wasn't that cute," the District 1 girl says.

Still with laughter in her voice. Still not taking this fucking seriously.

I wish I had something more than a fucking two-inch knife in my hand. I'm carefully minding the direction from which the District 1 girl's voice is coming. She seems to be cautiously keeping her distance. Maybe she assumes I have something more than I do. Maybe she's been fooled by the act Cereus helped me put on.

"For real, though," the girl says. "You were spot-on about that asshole from District Ten. Last we saw him, our ally – you know Cora from Two? She was rearranging his face."

"Couldn't make him uglier," I can't resist responding.

She laughs again – god, she's enjoying this.

"In another universe, we would have been good friends, I think," she says, a little sadly. "It's a shame."

"You _fuckers_ haven't killed me yet," I say, continuing to back away, guessing her distance at maybe fifteen feet away, still, definitely no closer. Where does she get off acting like I'm already dead? I'm fucking killing this.

"Yet," a deep voice from behind me echoes.

I try to spin, to stick my little knife in something, but he's so fast.

There's something cold – no, hot – no, just wet – at my throat. A feeling like something stinging, maybe a nettle. And then so much blood. Not deep enough to sever my trachea. It's the blood that'll do it. It's the bleeding that will kill me.

Fuck.

I never even saw the knife. I never even saw his face.

"Didn't get Statice, you fucks," I whisper as I sink into the standing water, blooming red with my blood. " _Go to hell_."

I'm fading fast. The girl seems to be standing over me, now. Wish I had the strength to fucking stab her. But I can't even open my mouth to tell her to fuck off.

 _Shit_ , I think. _Fuck_.

And that's my last thought. Fitting, I guess.

x

The bloodbath concludes with seven casualties, in order by district:

Doreen Massengale, District 5

Trace Posner, District 5

Lucas Inoue, District 6

Oliver Salcedo, District 7

Jean Pollack, District 8

Andre Ocampo, District 9

Dasheen Lindsay, District 11

x

 _Well, we've made it to the Games. Let me know what y'all think, and if there's anything you particularly like/dislike about the way that went down! I'm gonna be shifting to single perspective chapters - maybe two if I feel the inclination - which should mean quicker updates._

 _And while I am an immensely proud person, I'm not quite too proud to say: I really appreciate it when you review, please do!_


	33. Day 1: Aftermath

Day One: Aftermath

x

Raining like flower petals.

Hit by a heavy weight, insects descend the tree shade.

Gathering at the mast wall, trailing a faint breeze –

Sounds are killed by the sun, the waves.

My skeleton places white flowers upon it.

'Afternoon', Sagawa Chika

x

Marcus Ota, District 2

"So… not to be crude, but who did we get?" Angel asks, his tone conversational as he sorts through individually wrapped packages of dried meats, stacking them all in a single bag.

"Seven cannons," I observe. "Do we have any first aid kits? I have a bit of a nick on my side."

Angel winces. "Who did it?"

"District Five guy got in a lucky throw."

"Didn't the hovercraft have to pick him up in two pieces?"

"Well," I sigh. "Let that be a warning to anyone here who's getting ideas about stabbing me. I don't take kindly to it."

"I have a first aid kit," Cora volunteers. "Let me take a look at your cut?"

I smile. "Of course. How about you, though? Is your leg patched up?"

"Oh," Cora says. "I guess this is something you all should know. Samil – the one from District Ten – got me pretty good, for a second. But I got a few hits in before the slippery fuck got away. He's separated from that unfortunate ally of his. Did I mention he stabbed me? Because he stabbed me."

Jewel whistles, long and low, from the other side of the Cornucopia, where she's sorting through the weapons by weight and type. "Glad you made it out of that one. Too bad you couldn't take him out, though."

Cora has been looking a bit crestfallen since the bloodbath – she seems more than a little disappointed in herself. Doesn't make a lot of sense. She took out the girl from District 5 in an exceptionally violent display that must have garnered her a good bit of attention and came out alive – unarmed – from a tangle with one of the most formidable district competitors in the arena.

"You holding up okay?" I murmur as she rolls up my tight brown shirt to expose the shallow gash along my ribcage.1

"I don't think this is deep enough to stitch," Cora comments, ignoring my question. "I'll just clean it up and get a bandage on you."

"How badly did he hurt you?" I press. "Is that it?"

She huffs in displeasure.

"No, it's not that, I just … I should have killed him, you know? I should have been able to kill him. There's no excuse. I was just rattled, I guess. I got rattled when that guy was coming at you, and I didn't shake the knife off as fast as I should have. It was my fault."

I have no doubt that Cora's reaction to her own stabbing was more in the realm of 'hey, free knife!" than shock or horror, rattled or not.

"You expect so much of yourself," I say, wincing as she dabs my wound with disinfectant.

"I'm not hurting you, am I?" she asks, anxious.

"It's supposed to burn," I remind her.

"Not to interrupt your moment," Jewel calls, as Cora dabs a bit of a very precious ointment – one of those Capitol serums that makes flesh knit back together alarmingly fast – onto the cut. It looks like she used some for her leg, too, which is good. "But Angel's right, we should go over who we got and who's left. Planning, y'know?"

"I don't mean to hold us up," I say apologetically as Cora tapes gauze over the cut. "Let's get this out of the way. Seven cannons."

I pull my shirt back down – the white of the gauze peeks out from the drying blood-stained gash where the fabric has been torn.

"We followed the District Eight girl out of here and she led us to the pair from Eleven," Manari says. "Jewel took out District Eight, I finished off the District Eleven girl. The Eleven boy escaped."

"But honestly, he's in a miserable position," Jewel explains. "The terrain gets really disgusting as you get deeper into the trees. Talking water up to your knees, and not pretty water, either. The bugs are terrible."

Manari wrinkles his nose at the memory.

"They're not much better out here," Angel complains, swatting at a massive mosquito that's been buzzing near his head for the last few minutes.

"Cora and I, between us, took out both the District Fives," I say, and she nods vigorously.

"I got that District Seven guy," Renata says, a little proudly. "And Angel, well…"

"The District Six boy," he says, not nearly so proud of himself. "Little guy just ran right for us. It was… fucked up."

"Hey man," I say. "You did what you had to do."

"Wish I didn't. But thanks."

Jewel starts counting on her fingers. "Two… two more… one from Renata, one from Angel. That's six. Who are we missing?"

"Oh, shit," Renata says. "I forgot. District Ten boy. Caught him as he was running away. Didn't feel great, but… it's the Games, right?"

"Is it your first time?" Jewel asks Renata, who looks a little ill. "The first time is hard."

"Second time was even worse," Renata sighs.

"I didn't say it got easier. I liked the District Eleven girl – she was smart, and ready to die for her partner. I respect that. We still had to kill her, though. You're right. It's the Games. It just is."

"Who's left?" Angel asks, apparently eager to change the subject. "And where did they go?"

"Seven down out of twenty-two," Jewel counts. "Six out of the fifteen left are us. That makes nine for us to start hunting down."

Cora starts sketching a map in the sandy earth. "We should try to remember where people went. Get an idea of where we are."

"Good plan!" Jewel says, emotively.

From where we are in the arena, we can see a long swath of ocean and rocky beach to one side. We're on a patch of high but sandy ground. One portion of swampy forest extends behind the Cornucopia – a sandier portion of forest, carpeted instead with pine needles, stretches in the opposite direction.

"Samil," Cora mutters, drawing a number '10' and a letter 'M' near the Cornucopia with her fingertip. "We were right here – I think he ran into the sandy forest. The one with all the pine trees."

She adds an arrow in the direction of that particular forest.

"His ally went a bit of a different route, but that doesn't mean he couldn't circle back and meet up with him," I suggest, adding 'D8M' and an arrow that stretches towards the swamp. "Especially if he skirts around, at a guess, the two forests convene at some point."

"Samil left without any supplies," Cora says. A little proudly.

"And without his nose intact," I add, smiling at her – I can't afford to have her getting stuck on the fact she didn't kill him like she wanted to.

"Yeah," she says. "I did do that."

"How about the rest?" Manari asks. "Jewel and I left quickly."

"Angel and I tried to track the pair from District Three," Renata explains. "Turns out we suck at tracking. Thought we saw the Seven girl – the one who's allied with the Six girl – at the edge of the swampy forest, near the beach, but she just disappeared."

"There's big trees in both forests," Jewel observes. "The Seven girl and her ally must be having a good time with that."

Cora draws some more symbols – 'D3F' and 'D3M' somewhere in the swamp forest with a question mark, 'D6F' and 'D7F' closer to the coast.

"Who else?" Jewel prompts. "Nine girl?"

"Didn't see her," I say, shrugging. "She might have just slipped away."

Cora adds 'D9F' smack in the middle of the map with a question mark.

Jewel is back to counting.

"If you could add the District Eleven boy, somewhere pretty deep in the marsh - wait, the District Ten girl – Charlotte? She made it through?"

"None of us killed her, at any rate – and we haven't heard any more cannons since the bloodbath," I say.

Jewel almost smiles. "Well, good for her. You know what she did, when we met her in the elevator? She asked Manari and me to kill her. Was real spooked by her partner."

"Well, I mean," Cora says, gesturing at her thigh. "Can't blame her."

Thank goodness, she's back to making jokes. My confidence in Cora is definitely not misplaced, but she's … fragile, sometimes, like she was the first day or two in the Capitol. I don't want to see her shut down in the arena. I really do need her watching my back. Especially with Manari and Jewel so completely tight – we can't let them become the core of this alliance. We can't just be two separate orbiters of their power center.

So far I haven't really had to exert myself much to keep Cora stable and on my side. It's amazing what a few kind words and some basic consideration will do – she really is as loyal as a dog. Once she's sold on you, it'd probably take a knife in her back to talk her out of it. Not a bad quality in an ally.

"Then that's all nine," Jewel says briskly. "Plus six of us, of course."

"Hardly a fair fight," Manari observes.

"How do we feel about search parties?" I ask. "Pairs sound good?"

"Yeah," Angel says. "Come to think of it, we really lucked out. A trainee or two tends to kick it in the bloodbath, especially in years with lots of solid district alliances like we've got going on."

"Glad we're all alive," Renata says. "Six people is easiest to split into different group sizes, y'know. Also, you guys are alright."

Jewel beams. It's faint praise, but she's been working Renata over for the last three days trying to draw that reluctant camaraderie out.

She's calculated – Jewel, I mean – I'll give her that. I respect that, honestly. I have my own game going on, my own careful balancing act to maintain. In a lot of ways, hers seems to be almost as difficult. And, hell, she's good at it – who am I to judge?

"Cora and Marcus both took some injuries today, so I nominate them for first guard shift," Angel says.

Before she responds, Cora looks up at me to see my reaction – I half shrug, half nod, and she seems satisfied with that.

"We know how to make a fire," she announces.

I laugh. "Yeah, we practiced that long enough."

"Perfect," Jewel says. "Can you two help us throw some packs together, y'know, in case things go south and we can't make it home?"

"Smart," I say. "Come on, Cora, let's put together some bags. We'll make that happen while you guys sort out who's going where, okay?"

"I want to find Samil," Manari announces – but Cora and I head back to the Cornucopia to sort out the pack situation. Not our conversation.

"Dried meat, dried fruit, a bedroll, a flashlight, some spare weapons?" Cora suggests, sorting through the storage we've been putting together all morning.

"Don't forget water," I say. "A quart each should be plenty – they're not gonna be out forever and we don't want to weigh them down.

We select four of the highest quality backpacks – which have nice, padded straps and are mostly composed of thick grey material – and start loading them up.

"I'll handle District One," Cora volunteers, selecting two knives for what must be Manari's pack.

I search for a spare sword for Angel – something not too heavy, with a simple leather scabbard – then add a bedroll, a nice yellow flashlight, some provisions, and a quart bottle of water. For Renata, I find some spare spearheads and a wickedly serrated knife, just in case, along with the rest of the materials we agreed to send them out with.

"How about first aid kits?" Cora suggests. "One per pair – we have four in total, only one has this great ointment stuff, though."

"We keep the ointment," I say. "If they injure themselves, we'll tend to it at camp."

She squints at me, then nods, knowingly. "You're right. We should keep it with us. Can't let it into the wrong hands."

"They won't even miss it."

Cora loads a small first aid kit into Manari's pack, and I add the one for the Four pair to Renata's.

"Anything else?"

There are a couple of clip-on compasses that seem a bit dubious for navigation purposes, but I clip them onto the packs anyway – just in case. Hard to know what'll be helpful when the time comes. And we're not trying to lose our allies just yet.

"These look good," I announce – then turn back to the group still hunched around Cora's improvised map.

"Hey guys," I call, "packs are good to go."

"There's about a day and a half worth of food," Cora explains, handing one pack to Manari and one to Jewel. "We're hoping you all will come back before it runs out."

I pass my packs to Renata and Angel.

"First aid kits?" Renata asks.

"Just one for each pair," I explain. "But ideally, you should make it back here and let Cora take a look at it. She's good at that sort of thing."

Cora practically glows with the praise.

"There are some tents in the mouth of the Cornucopia," I say. "We'll try to pitch three of them so there'll be a place to sleep when you get back."

Jewel smiles. "Great! Since you missed the plan, Manari and I are gonna take the pine forest and see if we can hunt down Samil and finish his ass before he shakes off whatever damage Cora did today. No time like the present to waste that creep. Angel, wanna explain what you guys are gonna do?"

"We're taking the swamp," he explains, "but we'll be sticking to the edges where it's not too gross – hopefully we'll run into anyone who gets fed up with slogging through a foot of water and take them out before they hit the beach."

Pairing off – both to hunt and to guard the supplies – is necessary, as it gives each partner the potential opportunity to sleep, depending on how far out they go, and provides the necessary number of hands to deal with any of the two-person alliances that we might encounter.

I'm actually kind of glad that Cora and I got pushed to the first guard shift. It'll give me some time to feel out how she's doing with the whole 'arena' thing – she really is unpredictable, and I'm not sure I want to be out in a swamp with her until I know exactly what the situation is.

So far, so good. My read is that, minus the Samil situation, she's a lot more comfortable in the arena than she was during our time in the training center. The transition seems to have gone a lot faster than the transition to training. I'm not super worried. But we'll need a chance to talk a bit as we deal with the tents to really know what's up.

"You guys going to head out right away?" I ask.

"Yeah, I think so," Jewel says. "Maybe trade for dry socks – we have some spare socks, right?"

"Sure," I say. "Check the big brown duffel, that's where we've been putting all the clothing we find."

"Awesome," Jewel says. "C'mon, Manari, we're burning daylight."

"As long as we're not heading back into that fucking swamp," he grumbles.

Angel and Renata, who _are_ , of course, heading back to that fucking swamp, look a bit less excited, but nonetheless ready to head out.

"Maybe we'll grab some spare socks, too," Angel suggests.

"Good move," Jewel laughs. "We got drenched in there."

"Do we all feel good about the plan?" I ask, looking from face to face. "Speak now or forever hold your peace."

"Oh, I _do,_ " Jewel says, then cracks up all over again. "Let's go!"

The two pairs separate and jog off in their respective directions, eventually leaving me and Cora alone in the wide clearing. She relaxes, a measure of pent-up nervous energy leaving her posture.

"Are we good?" she asks. "You seem a little on-edge."

" _I_ seem edgy?" I say, genuinely surprised. "I mean. It's the arena, now. We're all a little wound up. I got stabbed. You also got stabbed."

"Yeah, but we've been stabbed before. I've stabbed you, you've stabbed me, it's a _grand_ old time. Brings back fond memories!"

Against all odds, I laugh – she really is funny.

"Let's get a fire started. I'll feel better once we're all set up. We should be watching the fringes of the forest carefully, too – it's gotten to the part of the evening where anyone who stayed close might be getting hungry."

"Do you want to take the bow?" Cora suggests, pointing at the simple recurve bow and the assortment of colorful arrows that have been sorted into the weapons heap. "You're better with ranged stuff than I am."

"Will do," I say. "Guess I'm first guard shift while you get our fire going."

"I can cook something, too – we have pots! Maybe that'll help draw anyone out, get them in the open. I hope we can pick someone off before Four and One get back, they get to have all the fun, going out…"

"Slogging around in the swamp," I remind her. "And we have the chance to rest up a bit and let that ointment work its magic."

"You're right, of course."

As I head over to the Cornucopia to pick up the bow and arrows and a pot and some matches for Cora, I realize something abruptly –

"Are you _still_ not carrying a weapon? After all that with Samil?"

She looks up in surprise. "Oh shit, you're right. Can you grab me a knife? Something heavy and scary-looking?"

I search through the pile – turning up a wicked machete that I think will suit her.

Based on the weapons we have remaining, Renata and I were pretty sure no one had gotten away with any kind of substantial ranged weapon, unless someone found a pack with a bow in it, which seems unlikely. It's good to know that, for the moment, at least, that's not something we'll need to worry about.

I strap the quiver to my back, a nice complement to my katana, sheathed over my hip.

Thick, towering grey clouds seem to be rolling in over the ocean, darkening the sky even though the position of the sun indicates it shouldn't be too much later than four or five. The heavy, still air – with the thrum of insects and the crash of waves the only thing disturbing the relative silence – conveys the feeling of a calm before a storm.

Handing Cora the matches and the machete, I wonder how long it will be before the Games really start for us – the trainees, in all the years I've watched the Games, have started out so sheltered, only to be thrown into the blood and muck along with everyone else.

We have the advantage of a little breathing room, I guess – though as I breathe, I can feel the healing flesh where the District 5 boy cut me itch and sting.

Just a little time to sort things out.

I wonder how long we have left.

x

 _I think if I do feel compelled to do an SYOT after this, I'll probably only focus on like twelve characters because this has been ... such a long undertaking, my goodness._

 _I tried to do an SYOT back when I was a moderately well-known author in this fandom in like 2012, but I ended up not really liking any of the characters and just having zero motivation to do anything. Funnily enough, what's really hooked me on this story and kept me going through the utter hell that is over 100k words of pregames has been sincerely liking a lot of the character dynamics, partially because I have ruthlessly stolen traits and elements of backstory from people I know and care about to try to humanize these guys._

 _Anyway, I'm starting to doubt there'd be any interest if I was to do a call for characters, which is too bad, I guess. Finishing this up will probably take another two or three months, and then ... I spent so much time on these characters back in 2015, I can't really imagine doing it again, lol._

 _Next up, we'll hear from Charlotte, who is having even less of a good day than the people who just got stabbed._


	34. Day 1: Evening in the Pine Forest

_Note: brief warning for some pretty legit violence and some slurs re: women_

x

Day 1: Evening in the Pine Forest

x

he knew  
the end was near because that week,  
the preacher spoke of how God giveth  
and especially of how God taketh away.

'Your Son Has a Beautiful Voice', Sierra DeMulder

x

Charlotte Reed, District 10

I couldn't tell you how long I've been running in the sandy forest if I tried. The towering trees camouflage the cloudy sky – I haven't been even able to see the sun in hours, I think. But I can't even really tell how many hours have passed. At least it doesn't seem to be dusk, yet. Afternoon at latest.

But I can't stop running, even though the sand drags at my shoes and my legs are screaming with exhaustion, because stopping now would be even worse than running. At least this gives me something to think about – left, right, left, right – other than what's really preoccupying me.

How am I alive?

I did everything right, I guess. I grabbed a little red pack and just bolted, got lucky and didn't have any of the trainees near me. They wouldn't have had any compunctions about killing me if they had the chance – I watched as the boy from District 4 killed tiny Lucas without even a thought.

They didn't get the chance to kill me, though. Or they would have. I'm fast and lucky. That's it.

But mama always told me that luck doesn't exist, is the thing. Maybe someone who didn't believe in God would say I was lucky, but what I know is that this is actually part of His plan for me. He needs something more from me.

I guess that's what's got me so panicky … what more does He want from me? I just figured I'd die, get it over with, go to heaven … That's what I was ready for. No more fear, just something quick and easy. Like what happened to Lucas, be probably didn't even know what had happened. I think he probably had the right idea, just running straight in there, getting it over with, no more pain and pity and agonizing fear.

Like a fool, though, I ran away, and now I can't … I don't want to die, I don't want to run back and demand someone put a knife in my chest or something, I _want_ to be alive, but I also so bitterly want this all to be over.

It's confusing. I don't want to think about this.

So I run, and as I run, I don't think that much – just about avoiding roots and paying attention to any noises. It's mostly silent, though. I think most of the tributes ran to the other forest or stayed to try and get better supplies. The only other person I saw was Bian, the girl from District 9, and I took care to run as much in the opposite direction from her as I could. She's big, and quiet – not mean eyes, but a little intimidating. Scary enough to stay away from.

One thing gives me hope. Before I reached the woods, I saw Samil and Damask encounter the girl from District 2. She's not the one I'd hope to do it. I think it's gonna take one of the big guy trainees to get rid of Samil. Wouldn't be surprised if he hurt her bad or even killed her. But she probably hurt him, too. She's one of those crazy District 2 trainees. He probably didn't kill her. But she probably didn't kill him.

Either way, he's slowed down – that will make it easier for Manari to kill him when he finds him. It will make it harder for him to kill that nice girl, Jewel, who he likes to leer at during lunch. It's nice to know that they will probably not be too much at risk from him.

I heard seven cannons maybe half an hour ago. I'll have to wait until this evening to know who died.

Against all logic, I really, really hope he's dead.

That's not a kind thought, but it's true.

A drop of water – rain – falls all the way through the trees and hits me on the cheek as I run. Then another on my shoulder. I wonder if I should stop. It's going to get slippery soon, and I don't want to be soaked to my skin, even though it's been achingly hot. The rain water is warm, too, like tepid soup.

I edge up next to a particularly tall tree and scoot up close to the base, all surrounded by brown pine needles. It's not a bad place to stop. Especially with the rain making it harder to see and my mostly-brown outfit, I'd be pretty hard to spot.

The weight on my shoulder reminds me of my little pack. I rip it open to find a single small bottle of water, a packet of seeds, a packet of crackers, and the blade of a short knife. Just the blade.

Not having realized how thirsty I was, I gulp down half the bottle of water in one go. Good sense kicks in and I stop before I finish it – it's not a big bottle, though. It won't last me very long.

Since I'm not running anymore, my brain is starting to work again. Unfortunately.

Why does God need me alive in here? Why do I have to keep going?

I almost want to cry. Maybe I should cry. That's what the viewers would want to see a twelve-year-old do. So I let myself cry a little bit, just a few tears. All the water I can spare. The rain is starting to pick up, but I'm pretty well-sheltered here beneath this huge tree.

Maybe I need to do more good deeds before I can go to heaven. But how can I do anything good here? I've been doing my best! I shared everything with those two from District 1, so they'll be able to get rid of Samil! That was good! I was nice to everyone I talked to during training, even Lucas! I just don't get it.

What more does God want from me?

I decide to eat a few of the crackers. I've been running for a long time. There's a huge clap of thunder overhead, and the sky seems to be getting even darker. I can wait here for a while. Hopefully the rain has slowed everybody else down, too.

Good crackers used to be kind of a big treat – any kind of snack food, something to eat outside of meals, is only for special occasions. My family's really not the poorest, but we're sort of on the edge of there, what with having so many children. That's God's will, to have lots of children and raise them to be faithful. It's part of why so many people in District 10 are devout. 'Cause we're the only ones having lots of kids, so there's more of us.

My parents worked really hard to make sure we'd stay fed all the time, so I've never really been too hungry. I hoped I'd die in here before I had to learn what it's like to be starving, like some people are.

Not so much in our part of District 10, on account of the church doing so much charity. Even I am old enough to help out with making food for the people who don't have enough and helping take care of the sick, along with my mama on weekends. Because that's what God tells us we should do. When you barely have enough, that's no excuse not to give to those who have less.

I guess I thought that might count for something, having done that kind of good, might make me deserve a less painful death. I really have tried to help. I'm not that old, but I've helped a whole lot, done everything I was asked to…

Against my will, I can feel more tears springing up in my eyes. I'm so scared. I just want to go home.

Something brushes my knee, and I scream out loud, then clap my hands over my mouth. Stupid! It's not a person, just – oh!

It's a silver package attached to a little silver parachute. A gift! I must really have sponsors, or maybe… maybe someone from District 1, too? I don't know. But either way, Timothy decided I was allowed to have something! I must be 'playing to type' well by running away and crying… that _was_ what he said to do, 'play to type'. I wonder what it is?

Wiping away my tears with a sniff, I tear open the silver paper to reveal a beautiful ripe apple. My favorite kind, from the train – the pretty, tart green kind.

"Oh wow," I whisper. "Thank you!"

Maybe this whole day won't be terrible after all.

Using the knife blade, even though it's hard without the handle, I cut the apple in half and put one half in my pack. Then, I dig the seeds out of the half I have left in my hands and slice it up, to make sure I'll eat it slowly.

I still have a long time to wait, probably, before the rain stops. Then I'll start running again – I'll run till nightfall, get as far away from the trainees and anyone else running from them as I can and try to get some sleep. I bet I could make a pretty good bed out of pine needles, and I'm pretty used to sleeping on the floor with a blanket at home, though the Capitol's fine beds and whatnot have made that seem pitiful in comparison.

Oh well. God loves people who make the best of what they have. I will make the best of it.

It makes me a little nervous that I haven't heard any more cannons, though. Usually the Gamemakers like to keep things intense on the first night. If there are no muttations springing out of the ground, that must mean someone is closing in on someone else or an alliance is fracturing or something.

Feeling very uneasy all the sudden – and noticing that the rain seems to be letting up – I finish my apple bits and put the rest of the crackers back in the bag as well, though I keep the knife blade in my hand – wrapping the silver paper around half of it to make it more holdable.

I really don't want to stab anybody, but I'm feeling the kind of way that makes me nervous I'll have to.

That was a good lunch. I wish I could figure out how to make the pack less bright red, but when I rub the sandy soil on it, the stuff just falls right off. I tie the silver parachute to my pants at the belt loop, just in case I can use it for something in the future.

Bringing myself to my feet, I prepare to run again, when a familiar voice stops me cold.

"That's a pretty bag you got there, Charlotte."

I freeze.

No more than ten feet away, that can't be anyone but Samil. I'm almost too scared to turn and face him, but I realize I'm gonna have to.

Slowly, I shift position so I can look him in the eyes – and gasp.

His nose is swole up at a funny angle, and his upper lip is caked in dried blood, but that's not the worst of it. The swelling of his face has one of his eyes completely shut, and he's bruised pretty badly at his collar, too.

The District 2 girl did a real number on him.

"I'm s'prised you can even see my bag," I say. "On account of your face being so messed up."

I start to edge away, internally cursing what mama used to call my 'smart mouth'.

"You should see what I did to the one who did it," he says back.

"I bet you really _showed_ that District 2 girl by running away and hiding in the woods."

He just chuckles darkly – I'm sure I'm making a mistake, but it's not like he can just kill me. Timothy would be so mad at him if he did that.

"You should go back to keeping your mouth shut when you're not cramming food in it," he says. "I liked you better when you did that."

Then, all the sudden, he seems to spot the silver parachute tied to my pants.

"Wait, Timothy is sending you shit? Sending _you_ a sponsor gift? What did he give you?"

"None of your business," I spit. "You didn't want to ally with me. It's mine, not yours."

"You little bitch!"

He lunges at me – oh no, he may be injured, but he's still fast – and I bolt, though my legs are already sore from running so long before.

I can hear him right behind me. Then, a sharp push sends me sprawling into a tree, banging my jaw, hard. I can feel blood in my mouth from where my teeth squinched down on my tongue. Before I can scramble to my feet and run again, he punches me, hard, in the face.

I've never been hit like that before – all the sudden, it's like I can't tell up from down. I can still feel the knife blade in my hand, but I can't remember how to use it.

Instinctively, I curl myself into a ball, though this means I definitely can't stab him, to avoid getting hit in the face again.

"Timothy will never send you anything!" I shout, as best I can with my chin up against my knees.

He hesitates for a split second.

I roll over and make an attempt at stabbing him but – oh, bad idea, I'm disoriented and I miss entirely with the knife blade wrapped in paper.

Samil takes me by the wrist and cruelly twists until the blade falls free of my grip.

I'm back to trying to wriggle away but he doesn't let go, picks up the knife with his other hand, gives me this _look_ – dark with anger and glimmering with something even more terrifying, even though I can only see one eye.

"You fucking _bitches_ think you can push me around, think you're _better_ than me… you're not, I'll kill you first, but _she's_ next…"

Harder and harder, I try to tug away, but he's so strong … if I could have just stabbed him, if I could have just done it…

"You're going to hell," I whisper. "I hope Manari and Jewel kill you. You're going straight to hell where you belong. I hate you."

He pauses for a second. "What do you mean about District One?"

"I told them everything!" I spit. "I told them you're mean and they should kill you fast. They're probably tracking you right now! It doesn't matter if you kill me, they know exactly what you're like and they'll kill you! I'll scream and they'll hear me and find you!"

This does seem to throw him for a second, and I redouble my efforts to wriggle away, a little less disoriented now. I scratch at his wrist with my free hand, kick him in the side, anything I can do to try to get away… I must look a real sight, thrashing around in the pine needles, but maybe this is what God made me live to do.

"Jewel!" I shout at the top of my lungs, knowing this is a wild shot in the dark at best. "Manari! Help!"

Unfortunately, this seems to shake Samil out of whatever preoccupied him about my last statement.

"Oh, you'll scream alright you little backstabbing whore," he mutters, plunging my knife – my own little knife – into my stomach.

I oblige, of course – it hurts, it hurts so bad, it's exactly what I was scared of.

He stabs me again, and again – four times, five – then stands up.

"I figure you should have maybe half an hour before that gets you," he says, kicking some pine needles on me.

I can barely see, in a haze of white thanks to the blinding pain. I'm crying again, my face is wet – though around my mouth, that might just be blood.

"Think a little bit about loyalty, if your tiny fucking brain can handle that concept," he laughs.

"I'll go to heaven," I try to say, but it sort of comes out as a gurgle.

He seems to understand me, though, and he laughs again, shaking his head.

"Not for a while. Until then, enjoy."

 _Just kill me_! I try to shout, but now I'm too choked with my own blood to even say anything – he cut me so deep, I can't feel my legs or anything below the searing pain in my stomach.

Samil kicks me onto my side, igniting a whole new dimension of pain, and I wonder why for a split second, then realize he's taking my little red pack from my shoulder and untying the silver parachute from my belt buckle.

"You won't be needing these where you're going," he says. "And isn't what that your god would want? Give everything you have to the less fortunate?"

He smiles at his own comment and, without another word, walks away.

If it felt like hours running away from the Cornucopia, it feels like years laying there in the pine needles, bleeding out slowly. He has plenty of time to get away – with my food, my knife, my water … I would be so angry, if I wasn't just cold, shivering in pain despite the heat, feeling a rising numbness that starts with my fingertips and has been working its way up.

And crying, still, because maybe I am just a stupid baby, but I didn't want to die like this… all I wanted was not to die like this … that was all!

I hear footsteps, eventually – it's so dark, now, that I can't see who it is, but I'm terrified, at first, that he's come back somehow. Maybe to kick me more.

Voices, garbled … my hearing is going, I can barely feel my face, but I can still feel the pain.

"Oh my god. It's Charlotte. She's still alive. Barely."

Someone leans in. I smell something … almost nice, like perfume.

It's Jewel.

"We tracked you all the way here – did he find you? Was it Samil?" Jewel is asking me, but all I can do is blink, practically paralyzed in agony.

"Hey," Manari says. "Jewel. There's a trail a blind man could follow back towards the fringes of the swamp forest."

He crouches in.

"Charlotte," he says. "I'm so sorry. It'll be over in a second. I promise."

I remember how he said he'd make it fast, if he could.

I lock eyes with him, try to make him know how much I want him to kill Samil, just with a look. I hope he can feel what I'm saying, knows how much I mean it. I know Manari will be strong enough to do it. A little bit, maybe, because the faith in me recognizes the faith in him.

"Close your eyes," he whispers.

I obey.

And then, suddenly, I feel something cold across my throat – then nothing at all. Like I'm floating up, and I can't smell the blood and viscera anymore … just Jewel's perfume, and something that reminds me of the earth after a rainstorm.

I'm gone. It's over.

Thank God.

x

 _:(_

 _When I wrote out my plan two years ago Charlotte was going to die alone BUT someone left a review saying that they liked her dynamic with Jewel and Manari (which was supposed to be a one-off) so that got expanded and she got a much less depressing death._

 _I'm being legit when I say what y'all enjoy/don't enjoy affects what happens, so! Please let me know what you do and do not like! I hate to be that guy but like. Please. Reviews are nice._


	35. Day 1: Night in the Swamp Forest

Day 1: Night in the Swamp Forest

x

I could jump.  
But I don't.

You could kill me.  
But you won't.

'I Am So Depressed I Feel Like Jumping in the River Behind My House but Won't Because I'm Thirty-Eight and Not Eighteen', Sandra Cisneros

x

Yuna Watanabe, District 6

It's been a little weird with Fidan since we've started out in the arena – though I guess it kind of goes without saying that things would be different once our lives actually are on the line. She's been quiet, which is honestly not a word I would have ever used to describe her throughout training.

Then again, not a lot to talk about besides the 'running for our lives' thing. It's been hours since we left the Cornucopia, and we haven't relaxed our pace, though I've had a bad stitch in my side for the last half hour at least. Even towards the outskirts of the swampy forest, the inch of slippery mud both slows our pace and leaves an unfortunate trail of clear footsteps behind us.

Anyone competent could likely not only follow us, but based on the sizes of our shoeprints, determine who they're following.

It's not an ideal situation.

The rain has hopefully helped erase some of our tracks, but it's also loosened the mud even further and made our careful journey even more treacherous. And now that it's not actively raining, of course, we're back to the 'leaving obvious tracks' square one.

I guess I can see why Fidan is so stressed.

Rather than just being camouflaged behind storm clouds, the sun has actually started to set, leaving the vault of the sky overhead a deep blue streaked with grey clouds, and the horizon to the west, over the ocean, a brilliant orange-pink that quickly slips into the sea.

"Should we keep at this all night?" I ask, keeping my voice low partially to avoid being overheard and partially because I have barely any air remaining in my lungs.

The fact that Fidan is in much better shape than I am is starting to become more and more apparent. She doesn't slow her pace to reply –

"Once it's fully dark we should probably start looking for a good tree and sort out what we have in our packs."

"Okay," I say, trying not to wheeze. "Awesome."

There's definitely a lot weighing on my conscience right now. Fidan and I just bolted from the Cornucopia with the nearest packs, didn't have a second to look back. We heard the seven cannons as we ran – seven deaths in the bloodbath. I'm almost certain Lucas was among them – Oliver, Fidan's district partner, doesn't have great odds either.

We haven't run into anyone since the bloodbath, which is definitely for the best. I don't think either of us are in the mood for a fight right now. My throat feels like it's chafing as I breath, both with thirst and exertion.

As the last shards of golden sun melt below the horizon, I'm about to suggest that we stop again when I hear something – a distant cannon.

Fidan hears it too, and it's finally enough to get her to slow up a little. Thank goodness. I'm about ready to drop.

"That's eight," she observes. "They should play the anthem and do the memorial soon, it's dark enough – let's start looking for good trees. I'm seeing a lot of cedars and live oaks – the oaks, the ones with the droopy branches, are our best bet."

I nod assent, though it's probably too dark to see me.

Fidan launches herself up into the branches of the first really hefty oak we find – it's a massive tree, probably fifty feet tall, and its many arms are twice as thick as my body towards the base, though they thin off a little higher in the tree.

With a gulp, I clamber up onto the first branch, carefully pull myself up onto another one, following Fidan without really being able to see her.

After an arduous level of effort, I meet Fidan in the crook of a massive branch about a foot and a half in diameter. She's already started sorting through her pack, a simple mid-sized purple backpack.

"A quart of water, a fleece blanket, a flashlight, a little bag of some kind of dried meat, a square of plastic, some disinfectant in a little tube, some bandages in a roll, a little bag of chocolate, and a compass," Fidan tells me

Still out of breath from the difficult climb, I take my black shoulder bag off and open it to reveal a smaller bottle of water, a few sticks of mint chewing gum, a pair of binoculars, an inflatable neck pillow, a tiny bottle of iodine, a box of matches, some little foil packages of mayonnaise, and a bag of crackers.

"Hm," Fidan comments. "The flashlight would be great for moving at night – we should definitely rest for a bit, but maybe we should try to get out of here before the sun comes up."

The idea of going back to running sounds horrible, but I don't want to be the ally who's holding the whole operation back, so I just nod.

"How about water? Want to open my bottle first? It's not much, but probably enough for both of us to take half and be okay for the night."

"Sounds good. I think water is going to be kind of a priority, here – we should think about how we're gonna get that."

"Totally," I agree, somehow still winded.

"You okay?" Fidan is just starting to ask when she is abruptly interrupted by the first strains of the anthem.

From where we're set up in the tree, we can see properly through the few branches overhead – clearly enough to see the seal glimmering in the increasingly inky black cavern of the sky.

Fidan and I are both holding our breath as we see the casualties in order.

First, the girl from District 5 – I sigh, knowing this means all of the trainees made it through the first day. Then, her district partner. Too bad.

The pair from District 5 didn't exactly make a splash during training or their interviews, but they didn't seem like bad people. I hope things didn't go too terribly for them. It seems both inescapably real and impossibly distant, these deaths of people I was with not a day ago.

Then – oh.

I'm not ready to see Lucas, even though I had my suspicions that without allies and without any meaningful training, he didn't have a chance.

But seeing his face. Oh god, he was so young – I wanted to help him, but there was no way … he understood, I couldn't offer him much and all he could offer me was a liability.

He didn't deserve to die, though, for being young and unskilled. He was kind, and tried to understand – he really was trying, just wanted people to stop pitying him, I could understand that, I understood …

I realize that tears have pricked out from the corners of my eyes, but I don't want to move to wipe them away in case Fidan sees. I'm sure she wouldn't judge me, persay, but it doesn't do my image as a slightly mysterious maybe-poisoner-or-something to be crying over an ally I didn't even try to save … didn't even stick around to witness.

Lucas died alone.

It's gonna take me a long time to get over that.

Next, though, comes another punch to the gut – Fidan's district partner, Oliver. Another one we didn't expect to see winning or anything, but still, I knew him better than the District 5s. And maybe it's misplaced nostalgia in the aftermath of his death, but he didn't … deserve to die.

I guess no one really does, at least, no one here solely due to an escort's selection of a slip of paper from a bowl.

With each passing face, I wonder what kind of truly evil person could volunteer to be a part of this.

Next is Jean from District 8, another tribute I know by name. She was trying, halfheartedly, to secure an alliance in training, but started too late and had almost nothing to offer a potential ally. Fidan and I were careful to turn her down easily but gently.

And now she's dead.

Then there's the little boy from District 9, who was barely older than Lucas but still looks much more … purposeful, in his picture, seemed less tragic in his interview. He's dead too.

So is the twelve-year-old from District 10, who I remember as something of a loner, always seemingly lost in her own thoughts during training – one of the rare members of a district pair who wholesale avoided her partner. He was kind of a creep, true, but hard to imagine turning down any kind of potential alliance as such a little kid, right?

She was so young. Twelve. Barely older than either of my little siblings. My stomach is in knots and I haven't managed to stop crying, but at least it's quiet and Fidan is paying attention to the sky, not me.

Finally – seven down, only one more left – the District 11 girl, Dasheen.

Fidan gasps audibly.

"No way, that's … that's not possible," she whispers, craning her neck like getting a better look at the picture will reveal some insight as to how such a reasonably competent and formidable competitor was eliminated on the first day.

Finally, the sky goes dark. Fidan and I are just two girls alone in a tree, gazing up at the stars.

I turn my eyes to Fidan's face and see that she is crying too. She recognizes my tears and reaches up to wipe her own away.

"Lucas… Yuna, are you okay? That must have been … hard to see," she says.

"Last night I stayed with him in his room until he fell asleep," I tell her, fresh tears rolling down my cheeks. "I didn't want him to be alone."

"That was good of you, is … is that why you didn't come to the roof?"

I nod dumbly. "I can't believe I wasn't … there. I can't believe I let him die alone. He should never have been here in the first place."

"Oh, Yuna, I'm so sorry," Fidan says.

"Don't… it's okay, he didn't want to be pitied and obviously there's nothing to pity me for, I'm still alive, I'm _fine_ …"

I realize I'm working myself into hysteria and ease back.

"Sorry," I say. "Why don't we open the bottle of water and have something to drink?"

Fidan nods, and I screw open the cap of my small bottle and quickly down about half of it, then pass it to Fidan, who does the same – leaving it empty. Probably a little over a pint total, not nearly enough to replace all we've sweat out, but we'll have to just call it 'enough' until we can figure out where our next drink is coming from.

"Are you… okay?" I ask Fidan, once I'm certain I'm not going to cry any more. "Oliver…"

"He was tough to deal with, but he was… what I had of home," she says quietly. "I know he had a sister he really loved. He talked about her sometimes. It's hard, right? Everyone else in here is a person, too. They had lives, they loved their siblings, they didn't … they didn't want to die. They didn't deserve to."

"Some of them do," I say, surprised at the anger in my voice. "Some trainee killed Lucas. Some trainee killed Oliver. They didn't just die, they got killed. By people who volunteered for this. Who chose to be here."

Fidan nods.

"I guess… I mean, we don't know them."

"We know enough. We know they chose to kill people when they could have stayed home. They came here because they think they can win and be the best and they don't… they don't care about real people."

My parents may be corporate now, but they used to be doctors. At the very least, if I've learned nothing else in my whole life, I've learned that human life is valuable and worth preserving. Maybe they believe it's worth preserving for a price, now, but … the basic idea of it is still there. Who the fuck signs up to commit murder? Who could put such a low value on the lives of others?

"I think we have to be careful," Fidan says. "Our districts teach us to think differently of people from other districts. We have to be careful about the things we believe. Last night, I got scared about whether or not I could trust you, just because you didn't show up to the rooftop party, and that … that was stupid of me. I wasn't thinking about what I knew about you, I was thinking about what I thought I knew about you."

"That's different," I argue. "It's different when it's me being a dumbass and blowing off something that was important to you as opposed to someone who just … signs up for this. There's no misinterpreting that. They signed up to kill Lucas and Oliver and they signed up to kill _us_ , too."

"I'm sorry, I don't want you to think I don't think you're right."

"It's okay, I'm just … upset right now. At least I'm not still crying, right?" I say with a laugh. "Maybe An was right, though, about just … figuring out a way to take them out, somehow. Poison or something. Before they kill us, too. That's the only way we can win."

Fidan half-smiles. "Yuna, _we_ can't win. Only one."

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it," I insist.

"Okay, well… what I hear you saying is that we need to be more active. We can do that," Fidan says. "I can help you do that!"

"That's why we're allies," I say.

"If you want to avenge Lucas and Ollie so bad, we'll figure out a way to do it," she continues.

I smile. "Exactly."

"Do you want to try to get some sleep?" she suggests. "Tomorrow will come sooner than we think."

"Yeah," I say. "I can inflate my weird little neck pillow – do you want to use the blanket?"

"Not like it's cold," she laughs. "But I can scrunch it up and make a good pillow – I'll prop myself up in a higher branch, why don't you take the crook of these two?"

"Great," I say. "Maybe we'll dream up some kind of plan."

"Maybe. I'm sorry if I've been a little weird – I got too in my thoughts. I was worried about some things, and I'm a little less worried now."

"That's good. And don't sweat it, we're in a shitty situation, I think we're both entitled to act a bit strange."

She laughs, and I begin to blow up my half-disc shaped pillow, then hook it around my neck and try to settle into the tree. Fidan is a natural at this, already seemingly in a comfortable position, her blanket tucked under her head, which rests against the trunk of the massive oak tree.

From below, she would barely be visible – the width of the giant branch exceeds the width of her small frame.

I sigh and try to get into a suitable position for sleep, but while I'm exhausted, I'm almost too aped up to rest. I know I need to sleep … I know the opportunity may be in short supply in the future … but nothing feels quite right.

Wriggling uncomfortably, I dig back in my pack and let myself quietly and slowly eat two crackers. Fidan didn't even think to eat anything … I remember how eagerly she ate during training. She must really be stressed. Or maybe this environment is reminding her of a time when she definitely wouldn't have had enough food to be snacking.

Either way, I need these crackers right now – we can negotiate proper shares of the food later.

Finally, I seem to settle into a position in the crook of the tree that isn't dreadfully uncomfortable. With the pillow supporting my neck, and part of the branch supporting the pillow, I may be in the least pleasant sleeping position of my life, but … I mean, it's not _that_ much worse than all the times I've fallen asleep on my textbook in the library.

I look up through the branches at the stars and can't help but think about Lucas, and about how all he wanted was to be treated like a person. How even I wasn't always able to give him that, though I was getting better, by the end of my time with him.

And then, all of that… thirteen years of a person being alive, breathing and speaking … he was dead in what, seconds? Just gone. A few moments and some trainee ripped all of that out of him.

It's the most human thing there is, to recognize the value and humanity in another person, and they just … can't do that. Because you have to think of someone as less than human to kill them. You have to think you're better than them somehow.

And maybe it makes me a hypocrite, but I just can't think of anyone who would do that – who would kill a twelve-year-old, like that little girl from District 10, or Lucas, or the boy from District 9, or any of the others who were human people, with lives and thoughts and stories – as, themselves, a person.

They're something else. Something ugly.

But it'll be okay. I may have let Lucas down in the end, but I'll protect Fidan now, and myself. I'll be proactive. I'll recognize the threat for what it really is.

We'll figure this out. We'll win this.

Or… at least … one of us will.

x

I'll be trying to cover everyone, just to sort of establish who's where and what's going on. Priority goes to people who are doing interesting things or who will in the future. I love Yuna and Fidan, but absolutely no one in the arena right now is going to have a particularly good time over the next few days.

Again, I have the skeleton of a plan laid out, but it is VERY malleable. Please let me know as I go what/who you like or don't like! The best way to do that is in a review, and I'm tremendously grateful to those of you who have. :)


	36. An Interlude

An Interlude

x

They are not those who used to feed us  
When we were young-they cannot be -  
These shapes that now bereave and bleed us?  
They are not those who used to feed us, -

For would they not fair terms concede us?  
\- If hearts can house such treachery  
They are not those who used to feed us  
When we were young-they cannot be!

'The Puzzled Game-Birds', Thomas Hardy

x

President Margaret Lancaster, The Capitol

"Excuse me, President?" the masked peacekeeper asked, opening the door to her private office with a tentative knock. "It's Mr. Lorca here to see you. He says he has an appointment, but I checked your book – he's not leaving."

She sighed, shoulders heavy with the weight of the last few days. "Send him in."

"Yes, President Lancaster, right away."

As the door closed, she leaned under her desk and produced two glasses and a bottle of wine – fine stuff, from District 11 vineyards before they were burned and replaced, largely, with grapes fit for consumption as opposed to fermentation. A popular move within the district – much more use for food than for alcohol. In the Capitol, less so.

Ruminating on the bottle for a second, she uncorked it carefully, then poured both glasses a little beyond a serving. Figuring she'd need a little more than a glass to deal with the coming conversation.

Without a knock, the door swung open, revealing a tall and broad-shouldered man in a navy blue suit in the Capitol style, necktie a bold red but a simple knot. She wondered briefly if Lorca tied it himself.

"Margaret," he said, with a halfway bow.

"It's President Lancaster," she said, a little coldly at the disrespect. "Dick."

He laughed, a cold noise, though it came all the way from his chest. Sincere. "Never heard that before."

"Do you prefer Richard?"

"'Lorca' is good enough for my supporters."

She ground her teeth. "I could hardly accept that label for myself."

"I have to ask, Margaret, lately … what the fuck are you doing?"

"Running the country. You wouldn't understand how that works. Are you still selling off-brand suits with your name sewed on them to your sycophants?"

This, perplexingly, made him laugh again. "No need to be mean."

"Why are you really here?"

"Your speech this evening, on the Games – that utter bullshit again. The same lines you feed to the tributes. Why do you bother? All of the lying – you're just making things so easy for me. I had to meet with you in person. I had to know why."

"My rationale for the persistence of the Hunger Games remains an important topic, particularly leading into the first night of the Games. We saw some upsets yesterday. The Capitol as well as the districts needs to be reminded of their necessity."

"You know as well as I do why we still run the Games, Margaret," he sighed, looking down at his wine with feigned disaffection.

"Well, you've certainly heard my speech enough to –"

"Because _we like them_."

Lancaster narrowed her eyes at the suggestion. Lorca, smiling now, maintained eye contact while finally taking a sip of his wine.

"Excellent," he commented, canting his glass politely towards his host in appreciation. "Is this a pre-Rebellion vintage?"

"You may be able to sell the Capitol on that kind of rhetoric, but you'll never win the districts," the President sighed. "If you'd actually paid attention in your history classes, you'd know that I'm speaking the truth, out there – they were an opportunity to elevate the districts in the aftermath of the Dark Days. To give them pride – to distinguish them from us. Life was cheaper back then. After years of Rebellion – it gave them an outlet."

Lorca laughed heartily. "Bullshit. We've always loved their blood."

"I'm not saying that can't be the case as well – if you'd only _listen_ to me."

"And hear you say, what, exactly what you say to everyone else? The people can see through you, Margaret. The people who matter, at least. You placate and you serve and you scrape at the whims of the districts as though they were human to you – but they're just votes. You gave them the right to vote and convinced yourself it meant you respected them. But you don't any more than I do."

"There's no other way," Lancaster insisted, exasperation evident in her voice. "You saw your way play out – you saw what happened when we were honest with them. Would you really put your lot in with Coriolanus Snow? After what they did to him?"

"President Lorca does have a nice ring to it," he replied, smiling without teeth.

"Is that what you'll say on your way to the guillotine?"

"After you, honey."

"I'm your President, Lorca, perhaps feign some kind of respect."

"You're my President _for now_."

"The districts won't have you – my numbers aren't wonderful in the Capitol, but they're outnumbered. Did you know they sell my portrait, in District Eleven? I take the train out to speak there and they've laid roses on the tracks. I brought them back to life."

"The Capitol, however, is getting bored with your charade," Lorca replied. "The older voters remember how it was before – before you started funneling money out of their coffers and into those outer-district hellholes. And the younger ones, well, they don't even remember the Rebellion. All they have are their parents' stories of the glory we used to enjoy. How will you bring the glory back to the Capitol, Margaret? Will your adorable _reforms_ make us great?"

He was referring, of course, to her most recent act – a proposal to raise the reaping age to 14 and allow for exemptions to be filed for disability.

"If you're going to declaw the Games, why not do away with them completely? You do everything by halves and you please no one."

"The districts respect them as a necessity," she said, through grinding teeth. "I don't have to offer grandeur to the Capitol, I offer them stability, safety, what they never had before with rebels from Thirteen and insurrection throughout the districts – consistency. You're nothing more than a flashy trinket full of fake promises that'll either go unfulfilled or see us all killed at the end of a rebel's barrel."

"Pick a fucking side, Margaret. You can't truly be on the districts' team if you kill twenty-one of them in a year. You know that. You can say they respect it as much as you want, but if you really cared…"

"Get out of my office."

"I haven't finished measuring it yet."

"I said _get out_."

"You going to call the peacekeepers on me? My supporters would love that – a picture of me being forcefully escorted from your office, like some kind of common criminal."

"I've worked too damn hard to see you tear it all apart, Lorca. It would take the most supreme level of stupidity to provoke the districts into organized rebellion now – you see what I've done with the Games? What I've really done? I've made them _hate_ each other. They love their own districts – many enough to die for them. I've created a microcosm of their own dynamics. My Gamemakers don't let them learn their neighbors are trustworthy. They trust only each other. That's what got us last time… they started to work together. Annia and I teach them every year that they can't. It won't work."

"Look at you, finally being honest… a change of pace, Mrs. Lying Lancaster."

She huffed in displeasure. That loathsome nickname.

"And as for Annia – which of you should I have executed first?"

"Don't threaten her. You wouldn't dare. We have enough support – there would be riots in the districts."

"Ah, not quite. _You_ have enough support. Having pushed your scandals onto her shoulders, knowing she's loyal as a lapdog. They'd cheer for her head," Lorca mused, swirling his wine carelessly, letting a few drops fall to the carpet.

"I won't let you take your vendetta against me out on her."

"She makes you weak. One woman in power is bad enough, but the two of you together really have gotten yourself into a mess. So many pointless lies. You'd get much more traction in the Capitol, at least, if you had an honest bone in your body."

"And you'd do so much better?"

"I'll admit, you really have done a good job with that … making them hate each other. That's a talent of yours. I'd be taking better advantage of that. Bleed them back to how they should be. Expand the purses of my supporters. Let them continue to hate each other, but by convincing them that each still has it better. As you've done with Eight and Three, but on a larger scale. Eleven and Nine need to remember what it is to starve. One and Two? They've gone soft – they treat this like it really is a game, because they win so easily, with such dignity. They need a lesson in humility. Set the Gamemakers on their tributes. No more early district victories. Get that soft-touch Claudia out of power in Two, that Sequin out of One. End this bullshit about Peacekeepers not having the right to rough 'em up a little."

"You'd lose the districts in a month. They'd blame you."

"Let them," he replied, shrugging. "I lose the districts, they lose their votes. Seems fair to me."

"You'd just create a fresh tinderbox for rebellion," she insisted, voice picking up half an octave.

He shrugged again, smiling that infuriating smile.

"I'm seventy, Margaret. They'll be someone else's problem in a decade or two. Until then, the Games will be as great as they used to be, and the Capitol will rise to its former glory. What you robbed from it under the guise of reform."

She pressed her lips together, struggling to find the words – to calm her frustration, remembering what Annia always said, to aim high, not to stoop to his level.

"This office is under surveillance," she said curtly. "Everything you've said is at my disposal for propaganda."

"Let them hear it, then – let the Capitol know I'll protect their interests, while you bend yourself over backwards trying to serve two masters and satisfying neither. That's the difference between us. I won't lie to them. And after years of your condescending bullshit… that's what the people want."

"You'll get them killed. You'll get us all killed."

"Maybe I will, Lying Lancaster. But who will believe you? You think they'll trust you over me, because you wear that unflattering skirt suit and scold us for having fun, like a mother scolds a child? It's too late. You've made your bed. Now you have to lay in it."

"I'm telling you again to get out of my office," she seethed, boiling over at last.

"Just let me finish my wine first," he replied, grinning and taking a long, slow sip. "Ah. Excellent, of course. Nice to see you do appreciate the finer things in life – not that you'd ever guess, with those repulsive blazers. I'd say it wouldn't kill you to show a little skin, but it might kill _me_ … maybe thirty years ago. Or forty."

"Out."

"Alright, no need to get touchy," he laughed. "I have a rally I need to get to. What _ever_ shall I talk about?"

With a mocking half-salute, he made his way out the door.

Her jaw hurt from grinding her teeth. In a moment of pure frustration, she picked up Lorca's glass and hurled it against the wall, where it shattered with a satisfying noise. That bastard, that utter _bastard_ … he was ruining _everything_.

Annia would be busy with the Games, especially tonight – they always brought out the first of the muttations on the first night, she would have to be there for that. So she couldn't – well, could, but wouldn't call her.

But increasingly, she had no idea who else she could speak to – who she could trust. Her personal guard of peacekeepers? Her fellow politicians, measuring her office just as surely as Lorca?

With a sigh, she snapped her fingers – a holo screen appeared before her.

"Show me the Games," she said, disliking the edge of distemper to her voice, taking another deep breath.

She'd already sent Annia the time for Lorca's rally – there would be blood, a lot of it, coinciding directly with his ascent to the stage.

He would not get the best of her. She would go down swinging for her vision of Panem. He was all bluster, could no one see that? Could no one see the danger in his ignorance, his willingness to provoke the districts, to foment rebellion?

Onscreen, Bridget and Dion were making their way carefully around the fringes of the swamp forest. She smiled. Bridget would make a good victor, perhaps. She was the picture of grim determination, holding a four-inch long pocketknife, leading her ally through the trees with a tiny flashlight.

Annia had done well, thus far – she really would have to do something about the mentor situation. Perhaps she could announce a contest within the districts that had thus far failed to produce victors – framed differently, of course. More honor to it. That would be more effective than the suggestions she had vetoed. Placing Capitol citizens in charge of training the districts? Terrible. The frustration they developed at being disadvantaged intensified their dislike of other districts, which was more desirable than some bland and uninspired trainer becoming their role model.

Lancaster jotted down a few notes on a pad that rested on her desk, then resumed her attention to the Games.

Hopefully, the rest of Panem was watching the same scene.

x

 _Getting ready for a conference so it's been a hell week at work - we'll be back to the Games very shortly for a check-in with Bridget and Dion and then our friends Angel and Renata. Vamos!_


	37. Day 1: Midnight Approaching

Day 1: Midnight Approaching

x

So since I'm still here livin',  
I guess I will live on.  
I could've died for love—  
But for livin' I was born

Though you may hear me holler,  
And you may see me cry—  
I'll be dogged, sweet baby,  
If you gonna see me die.

Life is fine! Fine as wine! Life is fine!

'Life is Fine', Langston Hughes

x

Dion Cayes, District 3

"…Dasheen, though? On the first day? Messed up," Bridget sighs.

I can't see her glum expression in the dark, but I can guess at it. The only real light left in the dark forest is coming from the tiny red flashlight we found in one of the two packs we grabbed.

One, the huge and heavy grey backpack that I've taken responsibility for, was just filled with bottles of water. Bridget's, a smaller white backpack that we've already smeared blackish brown with mud, contained a good-sized pocket knife, a chef's knife in a plastic sheath that I recognize from Xenita's cooking, though this one is a lot heavier and higher-grade, a roll of duct tape, a bag of orange crackers shaped like little fish, and a little bag of unidentified dried meat.

"She wasn't half bad," I say. "Messed up is right."

I've taken responsibility for the bigger knife, and Bridget is in command of the smaller blade and the flashlight.

"I thought she and Statice got away from the Cornucopia?" Bridget adds, musing. "Didn't we see them on our way into this mushy tree hell?"

The 'mushy tree hell', as Bridget describes it, has so far been suiting us pretty well. We haven't had any brushes with other tributes – which is probably for the best. We're both pretty on-edge, grimly determined but thrown a little off-balance by the reality of the arena. Made it out fast – got the sense we were getting tailed and went deeper into the swamp – and since then, our main challenge has been drying off our feet on the way out. Obviously, in an arena like this, water is eventually going to be a problem, but for now we're feeling pretty good about our supplies.

That, and our setup with other tributes. No news is good news, no encounters … good encounters.

Distance also helps make the whole thing seem a little less real – like, yeah, we're in sticky and damp kind of situation, yeah, not where I'd like to spend my evening, but not having crossed swords with anyone … not having contributed to the macabre memorial of faces in the sky … that feels pretty good.

Even if my stomach is a little sick, knowing that I was sharing a bottle of wine with Dasheen not twenty-four hours ago. She seems far away, picture projected in the sky. It's a little easier to think of her that way – all eight of them, really. Just gone. Helps keep my guts from tying knots around themselves, thinking how that could be Bridget, could be _me_.

There but for the grace of god go I, my dad always says, thinking about advantages gained through pure dumb luck.

Though our competence has a little more to do with the situation, I guess – we've been setting a back-breaking pace, covering our tracks as best we can, picked up enough supplies to keep us going a good while. All that's left to do is find some mild excitement to provoke sponsor interest without fucking ourselves up too bad.

"Is it just me, or is the ground getting drier?" Bridget asks, after a prolonged period of silence.

"I sure hope you're right," I say. "We're still pretty deep in the trees, though, far as I can tell."

I definitely feel less in the way of tugging at my shoes with each step, though – that's promising.

"Look up ahead," Bridget whispers. "Something big."

Something big, and something stationary, too. Not some massive mutt, but … rocks? An outcropping of rocks in the middle of the marshy woods?

"A cave?" she asks, shining her flashlight up ahead.

"Looks like it," I reply, squinting. "Weapons up, dunno what we're gonna find there."

She nods in agreement, holding her knife at the ready – I recognize her posture from knifework training, and stifle a smile. Bridget kept it under wraps, but she was proud – rightfully – of the seven she pulled out of her hat in there. As we've been running, I've caught her murmuring along the calls that accompanied the drills we were taught. She's worked damn hard to make herself the best ally – and strongest contender – possible. I'm proud of her the same way I'd be proud of one of my little sisters.

We come up on the cave, sort of gingerly approach from the side. The ground is fully dry up here. If it's vacant, this is a helluva find. If it's not, well… Bridget may get the chance to practice her drills sooner than she's expecting.

Exchanging looks, we edge closer – knowing this is a 'make or break' kind of moment.

I'm surprised it took so long to hit one of these crossroads. We've been mad lucky so far. Else, everyone else in the arena has just been having the worst day ever.

Bridget, without dropping her ready stance, leans down – l step in closer to cover her back as she picks up a rock, then makes deliberate eye contact with me, mimes tossing it. I nod assent, resume my defensive posture.

Slowly, so carefully, she winds up, then tosses the rock, underhand, into the cave – following it with the flashlight beam.

There's an echo – just the tiniest bit of one – then nothing. The night remains still and muggy.

The silence breaks abruptly as something massive – meat wrapped in scales – slips from the trees overhead and hits me like a sack of steaks on my right shoulder, knocking my knife clean out of my hand and sending me sprawling onto the ground.

Quick as I can, I roll to my feet – nearly trip on the fucking thing, it's practically slippery and I can't see for shit in the dark, Bridget's flashlight is no help – and immediately I feel another one of these creatures make impact with the side of my head, a smaller one, thank god, but still enough of a blow to have me swaying on my feet.

Bridget stifles a shriek – admirably, has managed not to drop her flashlight or her knife – as something massive collides with her, seems to roll down her chest.

"Dion!" she whisper-screams. "What the fuck are these things?"

I'm too busy trying to kick away from one that's started constricting my leg as I'm searching for my knife between scaly flesh – hold on, I know what these are!

"They're – snakes!" I grunt, finally dislodging my foot with a good kick, only to feel another one coiling around my other leg.

Still can't find my fucking knife.

Around us, I can hear more heavy bodies falling from the trees.

"These are some… bigass _fucking_ snakes!" I exclaim. "Stab anything you can! Let me know if you find my knife, the first one knocked it out of my hand."

To her credit, Bridget gets down to business fast – better snakes than other tributes, I'm sure, and she's relieved to finally have an opportunity to put that knife in something after carrying it around all day. I smell blood in the air, heavy and copper, as I kick around through the massive, writhing bodies in search of my knife.

Finally, I step on something that feels just about right – just as one of the biggest of the enormous snakes gains purchase around my ankle. Too big to wriggle or kick my way out.

With a deep breath, I dive down to grab whatever it is my foot's connected with.

Not a knife.

A fucking rock.

But it'll have to do.

The weak beam of Bridget's flashlight washes over the snake holding me captive – just before another falls from the tree overhead, slamming into her arm and turning the beam away – but I've had enough time to figure out its location.

Already hating the sound the impact is about to make, I wind up with the rock and dive for the head – _crunch_. Like a nut cracking beneath a layer of meat. A big fucking nut. Fucking thing is the size of my head. I bring the rock down again for good measure – something stings my bicep, but I'm occupied with other things, namely making good use of my nice big rock to smash away at the coil still tightening around my leg. Another sting – ouch, fuck – to my calf.

Finally disentangling myself from the massive body, I turn to find two new smooth, evil-looking heads sunken close to my body – one lodged in my arm, the other in my lower leg, not quite so big as the one that was nearly cutting off circulation to my foot. With a noise of effort, I flex my bicep – ignoring the panic that builds at the sight of the beady eyes staring me down – and dislodge the fangs from my arm, then bring down the rock on the head still fangs-deep in my leg, knowing it'll drive the thing even deeper in as the blow kills it, but what choice do I have?

In the moment, it's all I can think to do, never mind the fact that I don't recognize the snakes – they could be anything, these fangs could be pumping pure morphling into my body for all I know.

 _Crunch_.

Another one down. I whirl to find the snake that was all too recently biting me – recognizable by the blood on its muzzle, _my blood_ – _crunch_.

"This is not how I _fucking_ die!" I declare.

Seeing Bridget barely on her feet, stabbing her short blade as best she can at the two snakes wrapped around her legs, circling their way up her knees, I join in as best I can – "hold the knife back!" I command, hoping to avoid getting stabbed as I bring down the rock on another snake – damn, my improvised weapon is red with blood and tissue, can't think about that too much – _crunch_.

Bridget screams as one sinks its fangs into her thigh – I catch it at an angle with my rock, smacking its fangs out of her flesh before it meets its end with a sickening _crunch_ against the very tree it fell out of.

"How many more can there be?" she pleads raggedly, finally stabbing the other snake into submission, freeing her leg, pressing up against me, back to back.

At least no more seem to be falling from the trees – with the benefit of Bridget's flashlight, I can almost see them coming now. Lightning quick, too fast for anything but a mutt snake. I can feel the beginning of a tingle where I've been bitten. _Shit_. Gotta keep it up while I still can.

A massive snake, the biggest so far, seems to fairly rocket towards us. I'm ready with a kick aimed square to its head – doesn't fully stop it, but stuns the damn thing, fangs still outstretched – with the wettest _crunch_ yet, I bring my rock down on its head like a kick-ball player scoring a touchdown.

The writhing snakes seem to be abating – Bridget finishes off a few smaller specimens, but I'm starting to feel too dizzy to stand fully straight. She seems to realize it.

"C'mon," she says. "You can make it to the cave. We gotta risk it."

Kicking away fleeing snakes as she goes, Bridget – strong, stringy Bridget, bless her heart – half drags, half carries me into the mouth of the cave.

"Jesus Christ Dion," she declares, but I'm phasing in and out now – can't tell if the blackness closing in on my vision is my sight going out or just the darkness of the cave.

"No," I mutter, "can't die like this – Bridget, don't… don't let me…"

"You dumbass," she murmurs, "that stunt with the rock… you're lucky you're not hurt worse."

She doesn't seem to register just how badly off I am.

"Bridget, I'm… I'm not good, I'm not… good…"

"Shit," she whispers, and I feel her flashlight on my eye. "Shit. We need… anti venom? Something? I don't… I don't know how to help you. Shit shit shit."

"Check… check ousside …" I strain to make my voice audible as my chest constricts like the snakes did around my legs.

"Oh!" she says, realizing what I'm saying. "Sponsors… shit, couldn't get in the cave, I gotta…"

She leaves me – _come back_ , I want to insist, but I can't raise my voice above a whisper and it's a fight just to keep my eyes open.

"Thank god," I hear her declare. "Oh thank god."

The sound of tearing paper. My eyes are drooping closed. She needs to move fast. It won't be long. I feel something cold – a pinch – in my upper arm.

"There's no instructions," she's whispering. "I'm just… I'm just praying they sent the right dosage, 'cause all I remember from survival station is slow bolas to a vein, I think I found one, I'm going slow as I can… focus on my voice, okay? You're gonna be okay."

It sounds more like she's reassuring herself. I think she realizes that, and her tone changes.

"Hey, didn't you just beat like ten giant-ass fucking snakes to death with a rock? You really think they're gonna let you die after that? You gonna die on me, you son of a bitch?"

I almost laugh – I try, but it comes out more like a deep cough that seems to worry Bridget more than it reassures her. The needle is still in my arm.

Some time passes. She's still pressing the anti venom – or whatever Capitol drug the sponsors decided I was worth – into my vein. I'm starting to feel my face again already. Shit works _fast_. No normal anti venom.

"Hey," she whispers. "You there?"

"Barely," I murmur. "You… shit, Bridget, didn't you get bit too?"

"Yeah," she laughs. "I'm just a bit woozy. You saved my ass, you know that? Got that fucker out before it could really shoot me up."

"Good."

She runs her hands over my bicep, finding the first bite – "was there another?" she asks.

I nod.

"Leg?"

"Right calf," I say. "Meat of it."

She scoots down, rolls up my pant leg – I hear her gasp. "Jesus _fuck_ Dion."

"Jesus do what now?" I ask with a cough-laugh.

"You got two bigass fangs broken off in your leg… what did you _do_?"

"Killed… it." I say, still feeling groggy and kind of out of it.

"I'll do what I can," she says, and somewhere in the mass of numbness I can feel something slide out of my leg, then something else.

She's digging through the bag, finds the roll of duct tape.

"Sorry, man," she says, "it's all we got. Time to pray our sponsors haven't run dry and we can get you some antibiotics if you need, 'cause this dressing is the best I can do."

I can feel more of my body, now, but as my nerves jangle back to life, I'm suddenly feeling tired, for real.

"Can you keep … watch…" I slur, as Bridget rolls tape over my deep puncture wounds.

"Yeah, no worries," she says, crawling up and pressing a quick kiss to my forehead. "Dream of Xenita, thanks to me you still just might see her again."

"Ahhhhh," I sigh. "Xenita."

"G'night, Dion," Bridget whispers. "God willing they'll let us rest a bit. Thanks for saving my ass back there. I'd call us even now, 'kay?"

"G'… night.." I mumble through the haze of exhaustion that's threatening to envelope me.

Doesn't feel dangerous, just … exhausted. I wonder where my knife ended up. I can still feel the rock clutched in my hand, muscles too seized up to let it go. I hope I didn't worry Xenita too much. Hope she knows I'm okay.

Saint Peter don't you call me just yet… I'll make it home if it fucking kills me.

x

 _Love a happy, if brief, ending. The night's not over yet, but Dion'll get to sleep it off. Not everybody tonight will be that lucky._

 _Though if you want to talk about bad nights, let's discuss my resounding second-place defeat to a guy with ungodly core strength in an impromptu poledancing competition this weekend and the accompanying bruisey hangover that knocked me off my writing schedule a good bit. Like icarus, I spun too close to the sun._


	38. Day 1: Dead Midnight

Day 1: Dead Midnight

x

Time is too long for life;  
For knowledge not enough.  
What have we come for, night, heart of night?  
Dream that we do not die  
And, at times, for a moment, wake.

'Nocturne', Rosario Castellanos

x

Renata Ortiz, District 4

"Should we just go back?" Angel asks, a plaintive edge to his voice.

He's seemed subdued ever since we left our allies in the aftermath of the bloodbath, which would be one hell of a blessing if I wasn't similarly a little … out of it. Not feeling anything I could call 'good'. Grubby, kind of. I want to step into one of those fancy Capitol showers and scrub off my skin. Something dirty coating me, maybe inside me already.

I didn't think I was like them. I didn't think I would so easily be exactly like them. Didn't think I'd feel a sick thrill of excitement as those boys – because the District 7 boy was just as much a boy as the little one from District 9 – crumpled before me. And then a wave of nausea, of course, but not quick enough to drown that sick satisfaction of having accomplished exactly what I was trained to do.

Did they feel it, too? Did Angel, when he killed that tiny boy, the one who wasn't right in the head? Did they feel how disgusting and helpless it is to take a life?

At first it was so easy to play along, buoyed high by their energy, their elation at having ... left seven dead. Two of them mine. Two bodies resting on my conscience. And all they did was reassure us it was normal. It was fine. It was just another afternoon for them, should be nothing different for me.

I know it's weighing Angel down, too, but differently, I think. He's higher-strung, whereas I am … floating. But no one else seemed any different, not vibrant Jewel or scowling Manari, they didn't change, it didn't change them.

Because this is normal, for them. Because they've been raised into it in a way we haven't. Fully changed, fully hardened, while I want to carve the ossification out from under my skin, rend out the part of me that likes it, that wants to do it again, that says 'this is all you are, this is all you have left to give'.

If District 4 was going to make me like this … why couldn't it make me all the way? Why couldn't it make me laugh it off like Marcus did, show more concern about a nick to his ribcage than the life of a boy… my hypocrisy is poisoning me slowly, because I know the cameras must have seen me smile as I caught that boy, _Andre_ , as he ran away. He had a name.

"Renata, I want to go back, we should … we should sleep, after that, I'm so… I'm freaked out."

We've been wandering aimlessly in the swamp forest for hours. I want to whisper at him to quiet himself, but I don't want to meet anyone, either, not until I've had some time to process this, to … is it inexcusable, to want to feel better? To not want to feel like my stomach is devouring itself?

Angel seems to get my drift about the 'being quiet' without my expressing it verbally, because he resumes walking ahead, gloomy but with more purpose than I can muster up.

If only I could be more like them. If I could go back in time to raise myself to see this as a true game, as they've been taught, to value my own life less, to value life in general less than … what, a shot at honor? My family was already set. I didn't have to kill those boys. But I did, I killed them, and now I'm wishing I felt less bad… disrespectful. I volunteered for this. They didn't.

"Angel, slow up!" I whisper-hiss, as he's broken into almost a sprint ahead of me. "Angel!"

"I hear someone!" he insists. "Someone is running!"

This dumbass is going to get us both killed. Or at least, himself, if he keeps operating at his high-strung peak without someone to back him up. I break into a dead run in an effort to catch up with him now. I can't lose Angel yet, can't go back to camp alone with those ice-cold facsimiles of humans who don't even understand that the very lives they've devalued are their own…

"Angel!" I call again, but while I can hear him, I can't see him, even with my flashlight on. He's turned his off.

All I can hear are his footsteps – maybe another pair ahead of him, somewhere in the distance. He isn't _really_ hunting someone down, is he? After all that? Is he even more fucked than the real Careers?

Even if he's off the deep end, I can't lose him. I know I'm faster than he is, can feel myself catching up – his breathing is ragged, but there's an edge of excitement to it – _fuck_.

"We don't have to do this," I whisper. "We can just go back, like you wanted to."

"No," he huffs. "We have to… it's what we're supposed to do."

Now I can definitely hear the person ahead of us. Running full-tilt, definitely human. Not some stringy little thing, either. District 10? No, he wouldn't run from us. The girl – my heart sinks. The sad-eyed girl from District 9. It must be her.

"I'll get ahead," Angel insists. "You hang back."

He bolts forward. I guess I don't have much choice in the matter, it's just one of those moments where everything happens all at once, but I'm too _ready_ for it to really be consumed. Too scared of how I'll react. But clutching my hammer tightly, nonetheless.

From ahead, I hear a cry – feminine, not Angel. I thank god and curse him all in one breath.

"Renata!" Angel calls from far ahead – as I hear someone advancing on me, slower, ungainly, but nevertheless approaching. "She's coming your way!"

Flashlight in one hand, hammer in the other, all I can do is keep moving, aware of the ever-increasing proximity of this girl, badly injured by the sound of her running. I just want to get to Angel. Get him the fuck out of here, he's not right, he's had a hard day, he killed that little boy for god's sake, he's gotta be trying to make up for that, somehow, it's not fair, he's hurting too…

The trees seem to part and the girl breaks into the slight clearing I've entered, a deep gash cutting through her, deeper than the bone of her right arm, which she clutches with her left, wild-eyed with fear and pain, weaponless … must have just been running, and she doesn't plan to stop soon … but she's soaked in her own blood, it's a wicked cut –

I realize with a wave of revulsion that it's Angel who cut her like that, Angel's the one who's left her bleeding like this, sent her back my way – what, like I'm gonna off her for him?

She freezes as she makes eye contact with me, the whites visible all the way around her dark brown irises. Looks frantically for a direction to run away, but the trees are thick here. She looks me dead in the eye again. I realize I'm frozen too. She's about to start – I'm sure to try to rush past me – and I'm about to let her, my hammer hanging uselessly by my side as I stare her down in horror.

When suddenly, Angel appears behind her, looking muddy but as ebullient as I've ever seen him – I open my mouth to warn her, to wave her by me, to make some gesture to help her escape – but he brings down his sword, from behind, over her shoulder, cleaving deep behind her clavicle until his blade lodges in bone with a sickening noise, like a fish head sliced off at market.

She gasps – eyes still locked on mine as fresh blood rushes down her front – says something, insistently.

Before I can move closer to hear what she's saying, Angel withdraws his sword with an equally sickening suction-type noise and, winding up, drives it clean through her abdomen, again from behind.

This shakes me from my stupor and I run towards her, to stop him before he can stab her again, but now there's blood bubbling from her mouth, gushing down her chin, she's barely held up by the sword sticking through her and I can't hear what she's saying…

Omri, it sounds like… the name she mentioned in her interview. I paid attention. I listened to all of them. Omri, the girl she loves who she wishes was in the Capitol with her, tasting the fine foods and sleeping in the fine beds… the last name on her lips, slick with her own blood.

Then there's a cannon ringing through the night sky above us.

Angel retracts his blade, smiling a little dazedly.

"We… got another," he kind of mumbles.

"You _fuck_!" I spit. "What the fuck is wrong with you? What did she do to us? Nothing! She just wanted to get away! She wanted to live long enough to leave her girlfriend with a stipend! You ran her down like a fucking dog! What the _fuck_ is your problem?"

He looks a little disoriented – I realize I'm shining my flashlight directly into his face. Reluctantly, I ease back.

"I had to," he says, still seeming strangely distant and confused. There's blood splattered on his cheek but he doesn't seem to notice. "I… we had to do it, Renata, it's what we … are."

"You fucking dumbass," I insist. "It's not like our allies were ever going to know if we let her get away. They wouldn't care. You know what they'd fucking say? 'More for them'!"

He laughs absentmindedly, raising his hand to wipe the blood from his face but missing most of it.

"Can we go back?" he asks, sounding a bit like a child again.

I'm so frustrated I want to fucking … what, cry? Like I didn't expect this, like I didn't sign up for it – I didn't kill her! Not like I killed those two boys, I didn't…

"Yeah," I say, resigned. "Let's go back, Angel. Let's get you some sleep. Sleep it off, okay, man?"

He nods dumbly and follows me as I begin to retrace our steps – not hard to do in the thick, viscous mud. Hoping against hope that no one has been stupid enough to follow us, or worse, just meander into our way… I don't know what Angel would do, at this point. I don't know what I would do. I just need to get back. Need to get him back. He'll be back to normal after he sleeps it off.

He has to be. He's the only one who even might understand.

We make good progress back through the trees. It's easier, following our footsteps. Everything's easier the second time, except … I remember what Jewel said. About it not getting easier. Patronizing bitch. Not easier the second time – how about the hundredth time? How many has she killed? Cora, Marcus, Manari? How many lives have they taken that this is routine for them? That they can joke about it? That they can treat this like a camping excursion in the woods with cooler hardware?

How were they raised, I wonder?

The old rumor is they raise the children in District 2 in a lab and don't let them ever learn to love, but obviously that's not the case – that's ridiculous. Cora certainly seems capable of blindly adoring Marcus, who like … I dunno, isn't actively mean to her.

Is their whole district like that? Do they just … place a different value on life than we do in District 4? Does it mean something different for them – not just to take a life – but to die?

What excuse does District 1 have? They seem like inlanders. Had Jewel and Manari been born in District 4, to identical circumstances, they never would have volunteered. They would be the spoiled inlander trainees who watch us, me and Angel, fight and die while they remain safe in their beds at home. What on earth compelled them to leave that behind - a life I would kill for?

I sigh bitterly, both from the exertion of the maintained pace and the train of thought. Angel tags behind me, seemingly doing a bit better now that he's focusing on his own footsteps rather than trying to communicate.

Hopefully he's not beyond salvage. That boy he killed … I wonder if he still sees him. I wonder if he thought killing someone else might replace that image – the noise the little boy's skull made as it caved beneath his sword. Maybe he thought it would feel better if it was someone who at least theoretically could fight back.

Maybe he's just tired. I know I fucking am.

It's dead late as we make it back, finally, into the clearing – a fire still glowing, waiting for us.

Cora is awake, watches us as we approach.

"Heard the cannon a while back," she says. "You're both okay?"

I nod. Angel glances at me, then nods as well.

"Marcus and I got a tent set up for you two – I put out some dry clothes, too. Figured you'd want them, after all that time in the swamp," she says, offering us some bundles of fabric that I vaguely recognize as attire.

"Thanks," I say, wondering at the contradiction of it all.

Are we people to her? Is only Marcus a person? Does she consider her own life worth preserving? Why would she prepare dry clothes for us?

She killed that poor frightened woman from District 5. Just as much not right in the head as the little boy from District 6, just as delicate. I can still see the fading brown smear on the side of the Cornucopia where she beat her to death. Without a second thought. Took her by the hair and beat her against the metal until she was unrecognizable, even as a human.

And from that same Cornucopia, she sorted out dry clothes and set up a tent in anticipation of our return.

What a mess of contradictions.

"Jewel and Manari aren't back yet," Cora says, realizing that we haven't either changed clothes or retreated into our tent yet. "Are... are either of you injured? I have a first aid kit, I'm pretty good at it."

Perhaps they just have a fantastic ability to compartmentalize. I force myself to smile at her. She looks a little unsettled, but smiles back awkwardly.

"I can… give you some space, if you need," she offers. "I'll just, uh, go over there."

Uneasily, she makes her way to the other side of the Cornucopia, giving us a wide berth.

Without a shred of modesty, I remove my backpack from my shoulders and strip down before changing into the dry clothes Cora handed me. They definitely make a difference. I'm more than ready to go to sleep.

Angel has taken off his pack and shoes and changed his shirt, but looks a bit mystified by the concept of pants and socks. I bite back a sigh. "Need help, buddy?"

"Yeah," he says, his throat sounding dry. "Sorry. Just a little out of it."

Now I sigh in earnest. Maybe he will be okay, in the end.

"I'll get one leg, you get the other, okay? You gotta do the underwear by yourself, though, that's Jewel's angle, not mine," I say.

He laughs halfheartedly. "You shouldn't… be mean to her. She's our ally."

"See, now you're totally back to normal. Same Angel as ever. Pinche tonto."

I turn around and help him with the pants, then the fresh socks. He seems to be regaining a little bit of his vitality. Enough to be mildly abashed at having needed my help.

"There's a blanket in the tent," Cora calls, apparently having been – unashamedly – watching us. "I also put some water in, in case you're thirsty. And there's some headache pills, for … you know why. It's uh. In the name."

"Thanks," I call back, feeling incredibly awkward and entirely ready to crawl into the tent – I could fall asleep on bare rock. On a beach swarming with fiddler crabs. Literally in the ocean.

Angel has already crawled in, and despite the heat, I'm grateful for the company.

Knowing Cora is just … sitting, out there, waiting for our other allies, of whom I am equally skeptical, to come home... well, suffice to say, it doesn't give me any comfort.

While Angel still has dried blood on his face, he has apparently downed half a quart of water and appears to be out like a light. Even in sleep, his expression is contorted. I know he feels it, too – maybe differently than I do, but the feeling hasn't been beaten or excised from him.

I groan with the knowledge that, while our allies may not have seen the turmoil with which we handled further violence, our sponsors certainly did. Is it too much to hope for a cut that doesn't show my resistance, my contrition? Angel's dazed acquiescence? Or are we too fundamentally warped to deserve that. Or are we not warped enough.

We've both done evil things, now. I hope I feel less evil when I wake up. I hope I don't die feeling like this.

I hope I feel clean again before I go.

Bian, the District 9 girl… with the name of her lover on her lips … I wish that could have been me. Almost. I wish, just a little bit, that I could have died clean like that. Certain in where I was going. Certain who would miss me.

But I will be certain. Certain that my family will survive without me.

That's all I need. That's all I need. That has to be all I need.

That's all I have...

x

 _Up next, in order - we'll check in on Statice, who's not having a great time, Damask, who is also not having a great time, and Jewel, who is ... well, you get the vibe. It's no weekend in the Hamptons here in the arena._


	39. Day 2: Sunrise

Day 2: Sunrise

x

I do not know how  
she felt, but I keep

thinking of her—  
screaming out to an empty street.

'Spaces', Jenny Johnson

x

Statice Lawson, District 11

Cereus sent me a pair of dry socks before I fell asleep on the first night in the arena. I know the money must have come from Dasheen – a parting gift for her sacrifice. She left me with my life, our two packs, and a pair of thick grey socks.

My feet were dry as I slept in the crook of an oak tree's bough. Too exhausted from running through the swamp to do more than empty a bottle of water, change out of my sodden socks and shoes and rest them on a higher branch to dry, and sob over her picture in the sky. There was another cannon sometime in the night. Not far away.

I was lucky. Unbelievably lucky. How do you top that kind of luck? Whoever died went quietly enough apart from that final cannon blast. There was no cannon when they killed Dasheen. They counted her as a bloodbath death.

Through the trees I could see her too-toothy smile overhead. I know I'm little more than a broken record, but I can barely tell time in the dark and swampy forest. Without the passage of time there's no passage of the pain and fear and grief. So I wait, brass knuckles still clutched in my hand as though they'd be of any use to me.

It occurs to me a few times that my angle means any viewers still tuning in to see me rest forlornly in a tree expect me to be concealing some kind of skill. If there was a poem for me to analyze, they might be impressed. Some macromolecules they'd like me to identify – please! Some years the tributes from District 11 do bring truly menacing skills with them to the arena. Deadly knowledge like the meat within the pit of a peach.

I wish I felt angry instead of numb. Anger would be useful. What would Dasheen do?

Make herself interesting, even at the cost of her own life.

She would tell me to get back to running. Sink my feet once more into the tepid water. Find something to hit with my useless weapon. Find some useful way to die.

Tragedies, I wrote in one of the papers that earned me our district's highest accolades in language and interpretation, are the result of an incongruence between the protagonist and his story. And I'm so far from the right hero for this narrative, these Games, this tragedy – so was Dasheen, ultimately.

I wonder whether I'll end up in an encounter engineered with mutts or other tributes, first. Do I have enough capital to be worth interacting with another human, or would it be quicker – less risky to the real players – to knock me off with some kind of beast, a bloody and abrupt end to my charade?

I guess I thought it would be more useful, having spent so much time watching the Games. We all watch, in District 11. Not because we have to, because we tend to do well – especially since Cereus, it's become part of the culture. Less like in the districts where they train their children to treat it as a real game, all of them, not just the chosen volunteers… more in that we recognize, I think, that we have stake in the outcome.

When Cereus won, when Sharon won, it was like the reconstruction after the Rebellion all over again. Proof that such plenty, the seemingly stringless support from the Capitol to foster our goodwill and trust, was not just a one-off. That we'd proven our value to them, become a worthwhile partner, able to compete on the same level as the trainee's districts – _as many victors as District 2!_ – and maintain our moral superiority, too.

I wish I felt superior in any way right now.

All my years of viewing me have earned me is a hyperawareness of my place in this narrative, brought home by the loss of Dasheen. Without her, I'm a throwaway death at best. It's what I _myself_ would say – ruefully, of course, with the _proper_ respect – watching my own Games. And my friends would nod and murmur assent. Not District 11's year. Dasheen was the closest thing we had to a spark – she really did have a way of reaching out, of connecting, of making her voice heard. And she's been quickly and ruthlessly put out.

 _Too bad_ , I'd say, watching myself in the crook of a tree, doing nothing of interest. _Maybe next year we'll be luckier_.

Next year will come, and perhaps Cereus and Sharon will have someone worthwhile to train.

My thoughts swirl as dark as the shadows cast by the thick tree cover overhead.

I can't stay here much longer. The sun must be rising. It must be almost morning.

With a burst of effort, I roll up my dry socks and replace them in my large camouflage-green backpack. I return the empty bottle of water I drained last night as well – no sense in wasting it when I might get the chance to refill it. Though the socks I entered the arena in are still a little damp and scummy, I grit my teeth and roll them on. My sneakers, at least, are no longer sopping wet. For the moment.

Holding my breath, I sling my backpack on and the smaller pack Dasheen left me with over my shoulder and push off from the branch, dropping five feet back into the swamp with a thick _splash_.

Against my will, I shudder as I feel my feet sinking back into the murk. _Cheer up, Statice – any luck, you won't have to worry about that troublesome corporeal form for much longer_.

The voice in my head sounds suspiciously like Dasheen. Never taking anything seriously enough.

She told me stories about her sister, Ginger – the older one, the talented one. Not a trace of envy in her voice, just the impression that she'd spent most of her upbringing feeling a bit like the spare of the two of them. Which seems impossible, since she was clever, funny, sharp as a thorn on a dry rose bush. 'Ginger' must have been a regular goddess.

Or perhaps, she mentioned once, happened to look more like her mother than Dasheen, and as a consequence was met with higher expectations from birth.

Like everything, Dasheen shrugged it off. I can't imagine she went to her own death with anything less than a flippant one-liner. I think she knew, to some extent, by the time the train pulled into the Capitol, that it would go like that for her. Too mouthy to be a good victor. Her words, not mine.

I straighten my back, finally, adjust my glasses, and try to get a good feel for where I am. A trickle of orange light is filtering through the trees – the sun is only just rising. It feels like … maybe five in the morning, but could be earlier, given we're probably quite far south. The stagnant heat seems to be trapped by the thick vegetation – it would probably be less oppressively hot if I could get myself out of here.

Not back where I came from. No doubt, the Careers have set up shop on dry ground, and the Cornucopia was the last time I remember dry earth beneath my shoes.

I try to think, then, about how I got here – I tried to run in the same direction, into the swamp, as best I could, knowing how easy it would be to get turned around and end up running into the same Careers that killed Dasheen … and Jean.

My stomach turns. I'd forgotten about Jean. The girl from District 8 who just couldn't be alone and got my own district partner killed for her troubles.

I don't want to be angry, as I think back to our interactions before the spear silenced her, but I am. Sure, outer districts try to act like we're sticking together, united against the trainees, but we're just _not_. Dasheen understood that, tried to make some inroads with the outer-district competition instead of assuming their goodwill, which was smart, but ultimately, probably, futile. Jean must have seen her doing that. Must have known she was trying to reach out. In the end, in a circuitous kind of way, her efforts got her killed.

Thinking about the sun – where it was when we rose up on those platforms in the early afternoon – I close my eyes and shift so that the weak suggestion of light from the rising sun is to my left. Then I start to move.

The mud and still water is just as terrible as I remember, though I'm moving more slowly now, can be more careful about where I put my feet.

I really shouldn't be blaming Jean, or Dasheen, or anyone else but the girl who threw the spear. District 1, Jewel Lasday. It was her voice that I heard as I ran away – it was her who matched wits with Dasheen one last time, then, more likely than not, finished her off. Her voice was low and rough but had a cadence to it – entirely unafraid.

Those trainees – _man_. The question of what the fuck kind of person signs up for this just 'cause they _like_ it is an old and well-played-out one, but still manages to hover on my mind.

I wonder if these woods will ever thin or the ground will ever dry up. If I'll hit some kind of force field – they have those, sometimes. Or maybe just a sandy beach. That would be better than this, but terribly exposed.

Overhead, as I make my way carefully through the murky water, I can hear some kinds of birds in the trees, though I couldn't tell you what they were. Familiar, though. The sort you'd hear if you walked near to the fence back in District 11. It takes a long time to get to the fence – more of the thick natural vegetation than ever has been cleared during reconstruction – but it can be a nice place to walk, provided you have some ostensible reason to be there, in case you're stopped by a peacekeeper.

No need to be carrying around assignments claiming I'm looking for a quiet place to study, I guess. Being part of the world around me, not just watching it through the fence.

Nature is so … damp.

Over time, though, the character of the trees seems to be changing. Not so massive, not so thick. I think I'm finally making it to some kind of fringe of this landscape. The ground remains spongey, but at times I can avoid having my feet completely immersed in water. I consider stopping and eating a proper breakfast – I'm starving, actually, had been too sick with running and the smell of the swamp and all the death I'd witnessed last night to properly take care of myself.

There were plenty of days I spent studying and didn't think to feed myself. This seems a little less a benign oversight and more a symptom of trauma.

In the increasingly far-apart trees, I can actually feel a breeze running through – cooling my face, which is slick with perspiration and the moisture of the air. It's blissful. Leaves ruffle – startling me, I freeze, not a good reflex – but it seems to have just been the breeze.

"Yuna!" a voice above me stage-whispers. "I'm gonna join you on the ground, the trees are getting too thick for me to be jumping."

The voice that responds is a good few hundred feet back and sounds exhausted – barely audible.

"No… problem…"

"You okay?" the girl in the trees – if she's the one allied with Yuna, this must be Fidan – calls.

What _luck_.

I keep hearing myself think that word, and it sounds more foolish every time. There's no luck in the arena – it's all calculated.

This must be Cereus, pulling out all the stops on my behalf back in the Capitol. There's no other explanation for my chance encounter in a massive and varied terrain with two of the only competitors who might reasonably respond well to my presence. It could have just as easily been a Career pair or a mutt or any other of a literal cavalcade of horrors.

Instead, it's someone I know.

 _Thanks, Dasheen_. For the party and the outreach that probably got you killed. For introducing me to the girl who may just delay my death for a little while longer.

"Fidan?" I croak, my voice coming out much more hoarse than I realized. "Is that you?"

She squeaks in surprise. "Who's there?"

I cough, try to clear my throat. "Statice! We met at – "

"At the party," she finishes for me. "Oh no. Are you alone? You're not being followed, are you?"

With a soft thud, Fidan falls to the marshy ground from an oak to my right, her impact impossibly light – two feet and one outstretched hand breaking her momentum. She bounces quickly to a standing position, wiping the mud from her hand onto her pants.

She doesn't seem to be carrying any weapons.

"No, I don't think so – I haven't seen anyone since last evening."

Her face softens. "Dasheen. We saw in the sky. I'm so sorry, Statice. She was so funny."

Kind of an odd trait to comment on, but I recognize it was probably her most memorable characteristic to someone who didn't spend much time with her.

"Yeah," I say.

Yuna's approach saves me from having to talk anymore about it, at least for a moment.

"What's going on?" she demands, less angry than exhausted and concerned. "What's up with District Eleven?"

The question is clearly directed to Fidan – I don't mind that one bit.

"He's not running from anyone," Fidan says reassuringly. "He was with Dasheen until she…"

She directs an apologetic look my way as she trails off.

"What, you like an alliance with him?"

"His partner died, Yuna."

"A lot of people died yesterday. Doesn't mean we need to adopt everyone who survived them. We have no idea what happened – I've never spoken to this guy before in my life."

"Look, I promise I'm not playing some kind of angle," I say, dropping my brass knuckles for emphasis – as if I would have any idea how to do damage with them

"Can you tell us what happened yesterday?" Fidan asks – quick to take the role of mediator, I observe. "At least that way we can learn a little about how things are with everyone else. We haven't run into anyone else either, right, Yuna?"

Yuna nods – seemingly still catching her breath.

On the spot, now, I clear my throat again, not sure how this story will go over.

"Dasheen and I made it away from the bloodbath pretty fast, weren't getting tailed until we ran into Jean, from District Eight," I explain. "She didn't mean to – just seemed desperate not to be alone – but she brought the Careers with her. The pair from District One. The girl killed her – we ran – they were faster."

I stop there. Take a breath. Then another. Stop to check how Yuna and Fidan are taking this. It's true, of course, but it's also not exactly a shining example of my heroics.

"How did you get away?" Yuna asks, a little suspiciously, maybe a little … impressed? Interested, at least.

"Dasheen … covered for me, until I was gone. Held them off, somehow. Distracted them, probably – neither of us are fighters, you can probably guess. They killed her. She wouldn't let me stick around to watch. I ran."

"Hey, you can't beat yourself up about it," Fidan says, placing a reassuring hand on my arm.

Yuna looks satisfied by my account.

"I'm sorry to make you go through that again," she says with a sigh. "Just gotta be sure, you know? I don't know you as well as Fidan … apparently … does."

"Sure about what?" I ask.

"You. As someone we might…" she glances meaningfully at Fidan.

"You could join us!" Fidan announces. "We're just running right now, but we might think of some kind of plan. There are more plan-options once we're three people rather than two."

"What's your thing?" Yuna asks, curious now without a hint of antagonism in her voice.

"My _thing_?"

"The Careers are our main obstacle to staying alive at any given moment, except maybe the Gamemakers – but there's nothing we can do about _them_ ," Yuna explains. "You seemed like you had a _thing_ in your interview. What's your thing? How can you help us if they show up and try to ruin our day?"

For a second, I am cowering, again, ineffectually, in a foot of swamp water as the District 1 girl laughs with her partner. As Dasheen thrusts her backpack into my grasp and stands. As the girl's spear, still gory from Jean's lifeblood, splinters the tree that has been our temporary shelter.

"No _thing_ worth mentioning," I say, my face heating up with shame. "I thought… I thought I did. But then I met them face to face in the arena. It's like they're bigger here. They fit here. We don't."

Another gust of wind rustles the trees around us. It's still unbearably hot, but I shiver. Yuna doesn't seem quite satisfied by my answer, but Fidan is nodding along with me.

"They killed all three of our district partners, I guess," Yuna says, eventually. "I guess that counts for something. Fidan and I were trying to find a way out of this forest – thought it would be good to know where the treeline ends, in case the Gamemakers try to bring it down around our ears."

"That's a good move," I say. "Staying in one terrain for too long is boring, too."

"Boring?" Fidan asks, curious.

"We watch a lot of Games in District Eleven," I explain, my face heating up again. "You start to notice patterns … what they like to show, what they don't."

My bad, using the same kind of language I would have used talking to Dasheen or a friend back home with people from another district, who would never possibly understand our culture.

Once again, Fidan looks sold before Yuna does.

"O… kay," she says slowly, like I've just told her I plan to seed a field with diamonds and grow jewelry for harvest.

"That's a kind of skill!" Fidan says brightly, sparing me the ordeal of trying to justify myself. "Knowing how things might play out from another perspective. It's a good thing we met each other."

"We should get moving again," Yuna says, changing the subject, though she looks like she would rather do just about anything but keep walking.

"Why don't we plan to stop for a bit when we break out of the trees?" I suggest. "I can show y'all the kinds of supplies I have, we can have a meal. As close to one as we can manage, anyway."

I bend down to pick up my brass knuckles – despite their complete uselessness in my hands, I'm determined not to let go of them at this point.

"Are those your only weapon?" Fidan asks as she takes the lead.

"Yeah," I say. "Dasheen had a little knife, but it's in the swamp now."

I try not to imagine its fate – slipped from her fingers as her body was drawn up by the hovercraft, looted from her still form by the very tributes who killed her.

"Yuna had a great idea – we had these little packets of mayonnaise, and we had the mayonnaise with bits of beef and crackers for breakfast this morning, then rolled the packets up into a sharp kind of point."

Wordlessly, keeping pace with me rather than walking ahead like her smaller ally, Yuna shows me a rolled up cone of aluminum with a wicked sharp tip.

"Figure holding this between your knuckles when you punch might make it actually worth something," she sighs. "Especially once I get my hands on something toxic to add to them."

"Would either of you prefer my weapon?" I ask. "I don't hit hard enough to make it anything but a liability."

Yuna snorts. "I'm the poisoner, Fidan is the plant girl. Neither of us is looking to get in a fist fight."

"Can't say I am either," I say.

She looks me up and down and cracks a thin smile. Yuna gives the impression of a person already a good deal older than eighteen – at least, if one equates skepticism and a harshly realistic vision of the world with maturity.

In that way, at least, she and Fidan seem to balance each other well. Alliances between districts – apart from the trainees, at least – are relatively uncommon, and disproportionately rely on well-matched personalities to last long. Where district pairs, once they've opted to stick together, will last until someone dies, inter-district implies a degree of volatility. I hope I haven't just provided the unstable element that will lead this duo to fracture.

But until that happens – this is how I stay interesting. I hope, somewhere, Cereus is proud to see whatever favor he called in paying off so well. He's done the impossible. He – through these two girls – has given me, at least, another day.

x

 _Not a high octane chapter, but I felt like Statice, in his ambiguity, needed a little more development or the way this alliance winds up wouldn't make terrific sense. I promised Samil next chapter, so ... there'll be more movement (a euphemism for unfortunate outcomes) in the next chapter, and then, with Jewel coming after, this morning in the arena marks a low note in the action for the moment._

 _I wrote this chapter on the train to a conference this weekend, so there are like two ways this could go in terms of update schedule - I could end up actually spending recreational time with my coworkers or I could get hit with inspiration for this and go back to my hotel room at 10 every night and bang out another chapter pretty quick._


	40. Day 2: Morning on High Ground

Day 2: Morning on High Ground

x

From one rude Boy that's us'd to mock  
Ten learn the wicked Jest;

One sickly Sheep infects the Flock,  
And poysons all the rest.

'Against Evil Company' by Isaac Watts

x

Samil Golding, District 10

Damask has been treed by the time I track him down.

Not by any competitor in the arena – thank goodness – not that I'd admit it, but I'm pretty glad not to have run into anyone after Charlotte. The District 2 girl got in a few good hits, I'll give her that.

I'll give her more than that, next time I see her.

But for now, seeing _anything_ will have to wait, because my right eye is pretty much swollen shut and my whole face is a mess of pain and heat, even more unbearable because of the oppressive heat and my full-body exhaustion after having moved all night.

Charlotte spooked me pretty good, with her threats of calling the mountain of a man from District 1 and his whore partner down on me, back in the pine forest. I made tracks to get out of there. Two trainees, in my condition, with a loose knife blade wrapped in silver paper and no sponsors in sight? Not happening.

I mean, I know I have sponsors. That's the worst thing Charlotte brought down on me – apparently Timothy had some kind of goddamn soft spot for her, probably thinks he's in a position to punish _me_ for what anyone else would have done in my position. They can talk district loyalty when they want, the mentors, but it's bullshit – the only loyalty that really matters in the arena is to the Capitol, and they want a fucking _show_ , and who am I to deny them that?

For the first thirty minutes or so after her, I flat-out ran. But couldn't keep that pace up for long in the sandy forest. Still couldn't stop, just in case – all that screaming might have brought someone, and whether or not it was her new trainee best friends I haven't been in the mood for a real fight since the Cornucopia.

Damask, up in a young slash pine that barely seems to be supporting his weight, doesn't exactly seem in the mood for one either.

But, surrounded by what look like enormous, hairy pigs – varying between the size of guard dogs and the size of horses, with wickedly curved tusks – he seems to have found himself one, whether or not he wants it.

Leave it to Damask to get himself into trouble without even encountering another person in this hellscape of an arena. At least he managed to follow instructions and get to high ground.

He spots me through the trees before the six or seven massive pigs do, and waves frantically, making the tree – barely more than a sapling – shake alarmingly. This excites the pigs, one of which has begun to press up against the trunk, only about as thick as a man's calf.

Damask is in a precarious position. And – I notice as I approach – he has my supplies.

Charlotte's apple half and crackers didn't last very long, eaten as I ran, and neither did the tiny bottle of water – already half empty when I started, the greedy little bitch.

It took longer than I'd expected for her to die. I was maybe an hour out before I heard her cannon. Checked myself for a moment to make sure I wasn't gonna lose it, like people sometimes do in the first few hours of the Games, after they first draw blood. I didn't, of course. But good to check.

"Samil!" Damask calls in a stage whisper. "What are we going to do?"

"Fuck's sake, dude," I say, nodding to the tree with a smile that makes my face ignite with pain all over again. "You took 'high ground' a bit literally, didn't you?"

"That'll be hilarious once I'm out of this fucking tree," he grumbles. "What's the plan?"

"Throw me the bags?" I suggest.

No harm in trying.

He gives me this look, like 'oh _please_.' Good to know he trusts me exactly the right amount.

"Fine. Still got the bat?"

My face may be fucked up and my neck may be livid with bruises, but my arms still work – and despite what I told Leona about stereotypes, the dumb bitch, it's hard to make it to adolescence in District 10 without learning how to deal with a pig or two.

The pigs, actually, haven't seemed to notice me yet – they're paying pretty rapt attention to Damask, just a few feet out of their reach. I see gore on the tusks of one of the bigger specimens – then notice a tear in my ally's pant leg. They've smelled blood, I guess.

Thank goodness the District 2 bitch didn't break too much skin – small mercies.

Damask holds out the bat, as though I'm gonna rush up and mingle with the pigs to grab it.

"Nah, man," I say, from a healthy distance. "Toss it here."

He looks at me askance, but stretches himself out on the dainty limb – I hear it creak, he's lucky he's so small – and lobs the wooden bat he took from the Cornucopia in my direction. Gets about twenty feet of distance. The pigs go crazy, pushing their snouts up against the tree, shaking it from all directions.

I wonder if they'd eat the supplies, if they managed to knock him out, or just him.

Pigs are vicious. Everybody knows that.

"Okay, Samil, any fucking day now!" Damask calls, and I give him a rueful glance as a pick the bat up from the sand.

"I got you, buddy," I say. "Watch this."

Winding up, I step back a few paces to give myself room to build some momentum – then just fucking go for it. It feels good to have a real weapon again.

Once I'm moving fast and just a few feet away, the pigs' interest shifts to me, but it's a little too late for that. The first one starts to move in my direction and I swing down, brain the thing with a blow to the back of the head. Its body is big enough, even laying supine on the sand, to present an obstacle to the others – but they start charging too, and I take out a smaller pig with a second swing.

At the start, there were six – of the four left, one is still coming at me, the other three are hanging back, smarter and bigger than their fellows.

I miss the right place on the base of the skull to kill the third, smash in its eye socket instead. The pig screams in pain. I silence it quickly with another blow.

These are _big_ pigs. I've seen three hundred, four hundred pounders on school field trips – these are well over that size, maybe five hundred, six hundred pounds. The smarter ones, I've observed, are also the pigs that are greater in size.

The smaller ones… probably a little gift from the Gamemakers. Sure looked cool when I took them out. But now, meeting the beady eyes of their larger cousins, I realize I may have bitten off more than I can chew. They didn't look this big from a distance, but their eyes are wide – exposing the white around the iris – with anger, and their tusks are razor sharp.

 _But the Gamemakers can't kill me yet_ , I think. There's a way out of this.

"Samil," Damask begins to say – there's terror in his voice, where there wasn't before.

"What?" I demand, barely looking away from the pigs, knowing they're madly aggressive even without Gamemaker intervention and could charge at any second. "Are there more?"

"Worse!"

I look up. At the fringes of the clearing, a few hundred yards away, the massive tribute from District 1 is impossible to miss – he's only got a thin-bladed knife shining in his hand, but I have no doubt he's packed to the gills with fancy weapons that would make going toe to toe with him a lost cause.

He's also – I realize, in a split second – coated in gore. Probably not his own, just looks like he hugged someone who was bleeding like a stuck – I almost laugh at my own timing – _pig_.

One of the massive pigs takes my distraction as an opportunity to charge. Rather than meet it head on, I run – provoking the others, now, too, away from the tree.

"Damask!" I say, keeping my breathing tightly under control. "Do you have anything you could throw at them? Anything ranged?"

I draw the pigs with me at an angle, not quite towards the break in the trees where I spotted the trainees, but building momentum in their direction.

Liberated from the tree, Damask has produced a y-shaped slingshot from one of the packs – nice! – and loaded it up with what looks like a pine cone. I have the attention of the pair from District 1, for the moment – the girl has joined her partner at the fringes of the pine forest, moving carefully, with a wary eye on me and my porcine pursuers.

A good fifty feet away from them, now, Damask's pine cone goes flying past, remarkably quickly – a really good sling shot – and scrapes across the Career guy's cheek, bloodying it. As though he wasn't gory enough already – his little partner's spear, too, has a clean head but is stained red down the shaft.

He looks down, scowling at the projectile's impact, searching for the source, looking away from me for one second – and I slip just into the tree line, scrambling my way up into the first decent-sized tree I encounter.

The pigs, not quite hot on my heels, keep moving – straight towards the two Careers.

"Shit!" I hear the girl exclaim. "Where'd that motherfucker go?"

"Bigger problems, Jewel," her partner says, somehow in complete monotone despite the encroaching two thousand pounds of pork.

I swing out of the tree once I hear the first pig squeal – stick within the forest, in the shadows as best I can – and nearly run into Damask.

"What next?" he asks, breathless.

"We get the fuck out of here," I say. "Let me get one of those packs, okay? I'm not ditching you just yet."

He laughs nervously, but hands me the smaller of the two. _Fine_.

"You good with that slingshot, or do you want the bat?"

"I'm down to stick with the slingshot, if it's all the same to you," he says. "That was awesome, what you did back there."

I'm too exhausted and my face is hurting too badly to smile in reply, but I nod, which still hurts, but not so searingly. He must understand – he's limping behind a bit on the leg that got tusked.

"We'll take those two out eventually," I tell Damask. "Not with both of us injured and you up a tree, but one of these days."

"Wish we could have had some of those pigs to eat," Damask says musingly. "They were so big."

"Nah, dude," I say. "Wild pigs like that carry the worst kind of diseases. That's why most religions say you shouldn't eat pork. There's some sense to that bullshit."

He just sighs in response.

"How have you been, man? I hated to leave you there, but looks like you managed just fine, even with the…"

Damask gestures illustratively at his face.

"Yeah, the bitch jacked me up pretty good. The fuck kind of person doesn't even flinch with six inches of steel in 'em?"

"Looks like you managed to find some of your own supplies," he comments, indicating my smaller pack with a tilt of his head.

"Generous donation courtesy of my late district partner," I say with a laugh.

Damask looks taken aback. "What do you mean? I saw someone took her out, and I mean, can't say I'm not surprised, but…"

"Hey, don't give me that look. The little bitch is the one who sicced the pair from One on me, I bet – they must have been tracking me all night."

"Why would she do that?"

"I mean, you saw – we didn't exactly get along."

That's definitely one way to put it.

"So it was you, who … killed her?"

"More like put her out of her misery," I say with a laugh. "Some people just need to know when to quit. These aren't the Games for a little girl."

He doesn't look quite satisfied, but I'm holding a bloody baseball bat and that seems like enough to discourage him from pushing any further.

"Okay, man," he sighs. "What next?"

"We keep running. The trees are changing – it looks like we've circled through the pine forest and we're headed into the swamp."

"Gross."

"But not a bad way to go – if we can get into water, they won't be able to track us any further."

I should have been more careful in the pine forest – with the pine needles on the sand, it must have been appallingly easy to track me, even in the dark. I moved fast enough to stay ahead, thankfully, but I'd much rather not have that big guy tailing me.

And the girl with the spear, too, I guess.

Like, I know what I'd like to do with her, and it doesn't involve _her_ putting anything in _me_.

"What are we like, doing, though?" Damask asks. "Are we hunting? Are we running? What's the plan?"

"We'll keep being impressive – like we were back there – as a team until Timothy caves and starts sending me my shit. I know I have sponsors. He's just being a jackass to mess with me," I say bitterly.

There's no reason for me to be suffering with my wounds like this when I know full well there's gotta be a few blood-hungry Capitolites willing to throw money at me. I killed my own fucking district partner – that takes _guts_. They'll know I'm a good investment. The Gamemakers must know they can't keep this interesting without someone like me, who's willing to make the hard choices and do the flashy things the other dumbasses wouldn't dare try.

Damask talked a good game about his partner – trying to bond with me, I bet – but when it came down to it, I bet if she'd fluttered her eyelashes enough at him he'd have been singing a different tune. Just doesn't have it in him.

For now, it's good to have an extra pair of hands, but long term, he doesn't have a veal calf's chance in a slaughterhouse.

I keep the blade I took from Charlotte tucked in my pocket like a good luck charm, and lead Damask into the dark and marshy woods ahead. With any luck, we'll be able to lose the Careers completely by this afternoon. Find some place to rest. I really am starting to feel ragged around the edges, hungry again…

But it won't be long now. Another hour of moving across increasingly spongey ground, until we hit water and then a little further.

I may be hurting pretty badly, but I'll heal – whether or not Timothy deigns to send me medicine. I have supplies through Damask and a decent weapon, too. Next time I get my hands on the District 2 girl, she's not getting off with a knife in her thigh, that's for fucking sure.

Many have tried, but no one – not even the Gamemakers – can keep me down for long.

 _x_

 _I was inspired while walking the streets of the city - strangely enough. Next: check in with Jewel and Manari by way of Jewel. Then: Angel, Fidan, Manari, Bridget._

 _Having trouble keeping track of who's alive and what they're doing?_

 _Career Alliance : Jewel Lasday (1), Manari Issa (1), Cora Davis (2), Marcus Ota (2), Renata Ortiz (4), Angel Lozada (4)_

 _District 3 Alliance : Bridget Harding (3), Dion Cayes (3)_

 _Outer District Alliance : Yuna Watanabe (6), Fidan Said (7), Statice Lawson (11)_

 _Whatever The Fuck These Guys Are : Damask Bhatti (8), Samil Golding (10)_

 _ **Deaths** : Doreen Massengale (5), Trace Posner (5), Lucas Inoue (6), Oliver Salcedo (7), Jean Pollack (8), Bian Mai (9), Andre Ocampo (9), Charlotte Reed (10), Dasheen Lindsay (11)_


	41. Day 2: Back to the Cornucopia

Day 2: Back to the Cornucopia

x

I used to be surprised by  
Survival. But now I know the mind can carry  
Itself to the infinite power. Like the way snow  
Covers trauma to the land below it, we only  
Believe the narrative of what the eye can see.

'What Shines Does Not Always Need To,' Adam Clay

x

Jewel Lasday, District 1

"Want to keep following him?" I ask Manari, who is glumly cleaning the boar blood from his knife with a handful of pine needles.

I say 'glumly', but particularly in the arena, guessing at my partner's emotional state has increased in difficulty by tenfold. Under stress, I noticed in training, his face would harden into a mask of granite. I haven't seen it fully relax since the gong sounded at the Cornucopia.

"No, there's no point to it. They're headed for the swamp. Let them run themselves ragged thinking we're in pursuit. We've wasted enough time on that bastard," he says evenly, though, because I know him, I can hear the edge of frustration behind his words.

"What he did to Charlotte – that got to you, huh? What was that you were telling _me_ , 'don't get too human, Jewel'?"

"She was just a little girl."

"So was the girl from District Eight. What's different?"

"She trusted us. No one trusts us. But she… believed we would help her," he says carefully. "It bothers me. Falling short of a commitment. Her death was slow and terrible, even with our help."

"You're a good guy, Manari."

He grimaces – at least that's a slight improvement over the blank face. Gives me something to work with.

"I've killed three, now. That's hardly what I'd call 'good'."

"First of all, Jean from District Eight was _definitely_ credited to me. And Charlotte to Samil. You've killed one person, and she wasn't exactly an unarmed shrinking violet on the run. Hell, man, you're the one who's been making sure people don't suffer more than they need to. Where I come from, we call that 'good'."

"Glad I've earned a pep talk," he says, a little snarkily, but sounding less veiledly despondent.

I operate on guesswork most of the time when it comes to figuring out how best to play to get people where I want them – I'm a good guesser. I wouldn't tell Manari he was good if I didn't think it was at least a little true

"We're all gonna die in here one way or another," I tell him, cheerily, knowing he'll think my affect is at least a little amusing. "Except for me, of course. But everyone else! And honestly, you're probably the best way to go. Quick and easy and they get to see that pretty face before they die."

"Okay, too much," he says, suppressing a smile.

But I saw his mouth twitch, I know I've distracted him from his moralistic brooding.

Manari's part-time occupation, apart from being an unbelievably imposing and highly skilled murderer, is moralistic brooding. I'm not sure if he sincerely thinks he's better than me – he definitely did back throughout our decade of training, and I gave him a wide berth as a consequence. I've dialed up the charm – well, with Manari, it's less about charming him than about connecting on a level that he's capable of respecting.

And he is a _moralistic_ _fuck_. He sincerely thinks he's a better person than most, and sometimes he's right.

I know it gives him some comfort to think that someone he respects as an equal – more or less – sees that about him, and is willing to repeat it back with a straight face.

"You done scowling at that knife, ready to start the trek back to join our dear allies?" I suggest. "Up and at 'em."

He sighs darkly, but sheathes his knife and makes one last effort at cleaning the blood from his hands with the pale brown needles.

In fending off the boars – massive, terrifying beasts for anyone, posing a real risk of trampling me under foot with their sheer size – Manari sustained a glancing blow to the foot by the hoof of a boar in its death throes that I'm worried might amount to a fracture. He insists it doesn't even hurt.

For my part, I got scythed pretty badly by the tusks of the smallest of the three – an ugly gash across my forearm, though it beats getting my guts all over the ground. I was fast enough to block, but not to fully escape the attack.

I tentatively cleaned my wound and wrapped my arm with gauze – not my spear arm, thankfully – but I'll feel better once Cora has made a ruling on my status and, perhaps, some sponsor gets a generous itch to help me out.

"You excited to see our friends from Four and Two?" Manari asks me as we begin to walk.

I'm furtively paying close attention to his gait – trying to decide if he's really not as hurt as badly as he appeared to be. There's a bit of a limp. He was lying when he said it didn't hurt. I wonder if Cora could do anything about a fracture other than helping us mount an appeal to Sequin for some fancy drugs?

"It'll be nice to be able to sleep," I say, and at least about that, I am fully sincere.

We didn't catch a wink of sleep last night.

Manari was trying to conceal it – putting genuine effort into it – but he was far more than bothered by what Samil did to Charlotte. He was as furious as I've ever seen him, but channeled that into a remarkably quick pace of movement as we tracked the boy that he maintained until we hit the clearing where we encountered the boars.

I wouldn't have gotten tusked so bad in the fight if we'd stopped for one, two hours to rest – and maybe then, in our absence, the boars would have just finished the asshole off. Though once I say that, I know it would not have been that easy. The Gamemakers clearly want Samil alive for now.

"Well, I'm with you there," he says. "It's starting to really hit me."

I dig into my backpack with my good arm and pull out the dried fruit Marcus and Cora packed for us.

"Eating takes the edge off a little," I suggest, offering him a strip of dried mango.

He accepts it gratefully. "Thanks."

Manari and I have a pretty solid situation – nothing sincerely warm and fuzzy, but the respect, increasingly, feels real. 'Fake it 'til you make it' is the rule I live by, and between us, at least, that principal seems to have grown into a genuine mutual respect.

We balance each other well.

"Actually, though," he continues, "we've spent maybe half an hour in the company of our alliance since we made it to the arena. What do we even expect to go back to?"

I sigh. "Renata rolling her eyes – or worse, actually ready to turn on us. Angel amping up the bravado. Cora making doe eyes at Marcus and Marcus making doe eyes at his sword."

Manari laughs, a short, harsh noise. "You don't think he actually likes her?"

"I know men," I say, giving him a look. " _You_ know I do."

Probably the one hang-up Manari has with me that he still hasn't worked through. I wish he'd get his shit together and stop making things weird over – _literally_ my most benign character trait.

"And?" he says, exasperated.

"He treats her like a dog, not a person. At least, around us. I hope not behind closed doors, when they're, y'know –"

"Ew," Manari says, wrinkling his nose. "Very high on the list of things I don't want to think about."

"As long as he keeps her toned down, I got no problem with it. We just don't desperately need another loose cannon, with Renata and Angel all…"

"Not liking us?"

"Not liking _me_."

"I mean, _Angel_ …"

"Don't you go there," I say with a laugh. "I mean, they don't _trust_ me. I don't blame them, it's not personal."

'Trustworthy' is probably not the descriptor most people outside of District 1 would associate with me immediately, or after getting to know me. How could I explain myself to someone who hasn't gone through our years at the Center, hasn't seen District 1 except through the window of a train?

I find myself missing home. At very least, the rules all stayed the same from day to day. They weren't the best rules, but you knew where you stood.

I hope I'm not completely wrong in my judgements of my fellow tributes – even Manari, I'm always palpably aware, could be playing a totally different game than I expect. I know he won't hurt me – both because that's not how he is and because it's very much against the rules we've been raised by, at least until the final eight – but I don't _know_ anything else.

And then you get to someone like Renata – who I seem to be making progress on one day, but the next she's stony-faced and silent all over again – and it's even more complicated. At least I know Manari's background. For all I know, Renata rose up out of the sea the day before the reaping solely to make my life difficult.

Now that we've gone silent, I see the evidence of pain even more clearly on Manari's face with every step. His façade is cracking, at least in this regard. I don't intend to call him out on it, but I will make sure Cora looks him over when we get back.

I was skeptical about her claims of proficiency in field dressings and wound care – didn't seem a stereotypical District 2 thing to know about – but she surprised us all at the medical training station, breezing through every question the instructor could throw at her, even challenging him on a few things. She had strong opinions on aggressive wound debridement. It was the only time in the first day that I saw her appear even mildly at ease.

Before we left for the evening, on that first day, I pulled Marcus aside and asked, pointedly, if Cora was _okay_.

He was admirably quick to defend his peculiar partner – in his own careful way, because that really is the word to describe Marcus. Cautious, careful, conscientious.

"She's not a patient person," he told me, smiling. "It's the first day and she's already up the walls, ready to go in the arena. It doesn't seem fair that they coop us up like this, in this windowless room, for three days, does it? We've had thirteen years of training. You of all people must understand how frustrating it is for her."

It was a well-crafted answer, I conceded grudgingly, but didn't quite ring true. Nonetheless, I didn't raise the alarm – and the next day, she seemed much more well-adjusted, alleviating the worst of my concerns.

I regret that, despite what I joke at with Manari, I truly don't understand what their _deal_ is. But I'll just keep gathering information until the final eight – I can hold off on trying to draw definitive conclusions until then.

"Hey," Manari says, unexpectedly breaking the silence. "I was thinking, about Charlotte. You were right. That upset me a lot."

I smile at his forthrightness.

"Yeah?" I say, prompting any further divulgence of information on his part. "D'you know why?"

He pauses for a moment.

"You don't have like… younger siblings, do you? Close relatives?"

"Just me and my mom," I say.

"Then… I suppose it would be different for you. But anyone you feel a particularly close obligation to, whether rational or otherwise – because it's just _right_ , because some things are just right."

I slip, for just a fraction of a second – I think of Sheena. I've been trying not to. Trying to distract myself with anything else.

"That face you just made. Whoever you were thinking about. I know I can be kind of … a tight-ass, to use a turn of phrase you've recently introduced me to … but I have a lot of people I care about like that. It's how my family does things. It's my responsibility, as a man, as the oldest of the family."

He lets that hang in the air for a second – I'm floored by the level of … honesty? Trust?

"It's just … how things are supposed to be. I have to…" he trails off, shaking his head as if to shake away the thoughts, like flies buzzing around his face.

I feel like I should share something too. But there's nothing I can safely share – nothing that won't endanger Sheena, my mother, my father if he's somewhere still alive but voiceless.

I wonder if he's watching. If he recognizes me. My name, surely.

"For real," I say. "I respect that. I've got people I love too. Who I wish I could protect."

There's another long silence.

"But that's why one of us _has_ to win, you know," I add. "For the people we love. This is how we signed up to protect them. And I'm not gonna just say it's going to be me to do it, even though it will be, because that would ruin the moment."

"You're incorrigible, you know that?"

"Look at _me_ , I'm _Manari_ and I can talk _fancy words_!"

"Come on," he laughs – actually laughs, not the bitter noise he sometimes makes that could easily be mistaken for it. "You sound like Fahrah."

"I love Fahrah," I say, quite sincerely.

"You know her? – no, of course you do, she's our year."

"Yeah, through Sheena, my … friend," I explain. "She's one of the only trainees Sheena actually likes."

"Not a trainee anymore – she got cut a few months back."

"Same difference," I say, waving the contentious point away with a sweep of my hand. "Hangs around the Center."

"Sheena, you said?" Manari asks. "My father and her father work together. I used to see her at company things, back when he dragged me and Nayir to every company party to show us off."

"Oh, she used to talk about those all the time. A bunch of stuffy guys in suits talking about artisanal weaving, sounded like a joy."

He laughs, and now the pain from his crushed foot has seeped into even that noise.

"We're not far, I don't think," I say brightly. "Can't wait to get my arm dealt with, hurts like a motherfucker."

"Yeah," he agrees.

Through the relatively sparse trees of the pine forest, at least, we can use the position of the sun to navigate. I'm like, 90% sure that I'm leading us in the right direction to get back to camp. Or at least, close to camp. We'll make it work. I never claimed to be some kind of expert in this stuff – we all learn the basics, but no one really _learns_ how to chart paths with the stars and shit.

"I think I've seen that tree before," I announce, hoping to make Manari laugh again, since I can hear his breathing getting heavier with the pain of walking.

"All these trees look _exactly the same_ ," he says, a bit of a snap to his tone.

Back to normal, at least.

"It's definitely thinning out, though," I observe.

He just nods. Apparently that was enough emotional connection for one day. I'm not surprised. Manari is like one of those spring-loaded jewelry boxes, meant to avoid being left lying around and exposing precious metals to oxidization – the further you try to get it open, the faster it snaps shut.

I was a curious little kid, and managed to get my fingers caught in my mom's boxes more than once. You gotta learn to be careful.

We're also tired. I keep forgetting that. I'm in that weird paradoxical zone of exhaustion where I feel on top of the world and ready to take on anyone and anything. He's _clearly_ not there with me.

"Hey, am I hallucinating that, or are we almost home?" I finally ask, observing a glimmer of gold in the distance.

" _Insha'Allah_ ," he grumbles. "Better not be more mutts."

The increasingly small and far-apart pine trees give way to a sandy clearing, and there it is, definitely – distant, but within our range – the Cornucopia.

"Fucking finally," Manari sighs.

"Not a morning person?" I ask brightly, noting that the sun is still not quite at its zenith.

He gives me a look like I'm about the stupidest person he's ever met, and I almost laugh at the petulant anger washing over me through that gaze.

"Fine, fine," I say. "We get Cora to look at us and we go to sleep, alright?"

Past exchanging words with me, he simply grumbles.

Once we're in clear visible range, the first person I see is Marcus – he waves us down, noting the bloody bandage on my arm and Manari's limp.

"What happened?" he asks, looking us up and down.

"Well," I say, "we found Samil, and we know where he's going."

"Did he … find you, too?" Marcus asks, eyes going back to my arm.

"Mutts," I say. "Gamemakers aren't ready for us to get rid of him quite yet."

"Ah," he says. "I'll wake Cora, she'll want to see the damage and figure out where to go next."

"Thanks."

The exhaustion is really starting to hit me, now that I can actually see the tents – we're on the home stretch.

Marcus leans into one tent – I hear him exchange some words with Cora, though he's speaking so quietly I can't quite catch what they're saying. Angel and Renata are nowhere to be found, more likely than not still sleeping off their last night's adventure. We did hear a cannon in the night – and it doesn't seem to have come from an attack on the camp. Perhaps their hunt was more fruitful than ours.

I note two pairs of sneakers outside of the furthest tent – at least I'm reasonably sure they both made it back.

Cora emerges a little blearily from the tent, still apparently unsteady on her bandaged leg. Her fleecy yellow hair is all at angles from sleeping on it.

"Good to see you both back!" she announces. "Is Jewel's arm the only bad injury?"

"Manari's got a limp," Marcus reminds her softly.

With a grunt of displeasure, Manari indicates his right foot.

"It's not that bad."

 _Sure_.

"Sponsors can't help us if they don't know what's wrong," I remind him. "You're not doing yourself any favors by keeping a straight face."

"Marcus, can you grab my kit?" Cora asks. "Jewel's arm should be easy to take care of – if it's still bleeding, squish it with a fresh bandage for a few minutes to get it to stop, then take stock of the damage."

I wince at her language – clearly not a _classically_ trained medic, but she's what we have.

"Take a seat, Manari," she says cheerfully. "Step into my office."

He grimaces as though the interaction is causing him more pain than his foot, but obeys.

Cora sits across from him. "Stretch out your leg for me?"

The hard line of his mouth tightens, but once again, he complies. _Do it for the sponsors_ , I try to tell him through my eyes. He gives me the same grimace.

Gently, Cora unties his sneaker, loosens the laces carefully, and begins to slip it off.

Manari coughs. No, his eyes are watering. He's hurt badly.

"Jewel, Marcus can take care of your arm," Cora tells me, pausing and looking up. "You don't have to … watch."

I take a seat next to Manari. "I can wait until I know he's okay."

Now, the look in his eyes is grateful. I smile.

"Someone's gotta hold his hand, hm?"

"Suit yourself," Cora says, then abruptly removes the shoe – after almost completely removing the laces.

Manari flinches.

"Hey, man," I say, trying to sound soothing but not condescending. "You want to take my hand? For real, no shame."

His eyes are watering. He reluctantly takes my outstretched hand.

"Your nails are so – long," he comments, flinching again as Cora rolls his sock down about half an inch.

"They won't be for much longer if you snap off my fingers, like you're on track to do," I tell him mildly. "But that's your call."

He relaxes the death grip on my hand only to resume it immediately as Cora removes his sock.

She gasps audibly.

"Uh, wow," she says. "This is really… broken. Like, at least one of these bones is full-on snapped. What happened?"

"A boar mutt stepped on his foot," I say by way of explanation.

She nods. "That'll do it. This is pretty bad, Manari. You should not have been walking on this for as long as you were. I always get yelled at for walking on broken bones, it can mess them up real bad long term. The drugs you need are expensive and don't just come in a first aid kit. To clear it up the fastest… I think you'll need a hit or two of stem cell therapy, and you should probably take a calcium supplement and a B-12 injection, too. We have cold packs, so I'll crack one of those and get this elevated – once we reduce the swelling, I'll know where to give you the shot and if I need to adjust the bone at all so it'll heal straight."

I spare a glance down – Cora doesn't seem too shaken up, but the side of Manari's foot is grossly swollen and blue-black beneath his dark skin.

"It's just the second day," I tell him. "We have sponsors. Sequin will want you in tip-top shape, hm?"

Marcus joins us, holding an additional first aid kit. "I've got one of the cold packs, and a crate we can get on its side to keep that elevated."

"You guys break a lot of bones?" I ask.

"Even for District Two, Cora's what you'd call an expert," Marcus says, laughing.

Cora smiles reassuringly at Manari, whose expression doesn't waver from its state of somewhere between 'disgruntled' and 'pained'.

"Yeah," she says. "Marcus broke both my legs once, and I was totally back to normal in a few days. I know this hurts, but with Capitol medicine … we'll have you fighting boar mutts again in no time!"

"I'd settle for walking without a limp," Manari grumbles.

"Wait," I say. "They let you guys fight? Like, _each other_? Before the arena?"

Cora's forehead wrinkles. "What, they don't let you?"

"No," Manari says stiffly.

"Huh. Alright, prop your leg up on this and start icing it. You're lucky – if the hoof had caught you at a little more of an angle you could be dealing with a compound fracture, and those are a real bitch."

"We didn't get any sleep last night. What are my odds of getting into our tent in the next half hour?"

"Not great," Cora says. "You'll need to ice this for at least that long, and then, since you walked on it so much, it'll probably need to be adjusted for me to do the injection and have it heal normal. Even then, you'll probably want to sleep with it elevated, and you're… bigger than the tent."

Manari sighs bitterly. Half of figuring out what's on his mind is just interpreting the tone of his sighs. He does it a lot.

"I'll stay out here with you," I tell him. "Can't promise I'll stay awake, but I won't leave you alone."

I neglect to add the unspoken 'with them' to that statement, but I can tell from his terse nod of acknowledgement that he gets my meaning.

"While we're waiting on that, would you rather have me or Cora handle the arm?" Marcus asks. "Or you can do it yourself, obviously. That's your call."

I realize at the same time as Manari that we are still holding hands – we release our grips on each other simultaneously. Embarrassing.

"I'd trust either of you two," I say, with a smile that must not reach my eyes.

They know as well as I do that I wouldn't, actually, trust either of them with much more than a bandage and some antiseptic.

"I've got you, then," he says. "Funny. Don't they teach you about wound care in District One?"

"They try to avoid wounding us, actually," Manari says, deadpan.

" _Clearly_ ," Marcus says, eyeing my slapdash field dressing – still slowly growing progressively wetter and heavier with blood.

As he goes to work – remarkably gentle for a man who, in the time I've known him, has been responsible for a decapitation – I continue to make meaningful eye contact with Manari, who seems to be slipping in and out of consciousness.

 _Are you okay_? _What next_? _How soon can we get away from these people_?

As superficially _acceptable_ as Cora and Marcus have made themselves in the context of our alliance, I'm reminded that, despite any of my hangups with Manari – or his with me – there is no one in this arena I am prepared to rely on the way I can on him.

Broken foot or not, enigma or not, emotional conflicts or not.

Maybe even more, after Charlotte. Knowing what I do about him. His sense of duty – so similar, in so many ways, to mine. More than he knows.

For now – for the forseeable future – we're in this together.

"Ah, a parachute!" Cora announces. "I wonder who it's for."

Me, Manari, and our mentors. Team District 1. For better or for worse. By the final eight, it'll be just us two on our own. And, as useful as our medically inclined allies are ... I can hardly wait.

x

 _Whether you're enjoying this story or hating it, please consider letting me know in a review - I am a lonely scientist and I value, immeasurably, criticism, praise, and literally any human interaction you have to offer._


	42. Day 2: Waking Up

Day 2: Waking Up

x

Here dead lie we because we did not choose  
To live and shame the land from which we sprung.

Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose;  
But young men think it is, and we were young.

'Here dead lie we because we did not choose,' A.E. Housman

x

Angel Lozada, District 4

Even for what I'm used to pre-Capitol, the tent isn't comfortable. I'm up the second I hear voices outside – Manari and Jewel coming home – and realize that the sun is up as well, filtering through the thin green fabric stretched over me and Renata.

Oh, and Renata is also here. She's taking up most of the space in the tent, which isn't a problem, per say, but in the oppressive heat and humidity, the close proximity of another body isn't exactly ideal.

For a while, though, I stay still and try to listen to the voices of my allies from just a few feet away. I'd rather not be thinking too hard about anything right now. I had some kind of freak-out last night, got too tired – I _should_ be resting, Renata is snoring softly to my right, this is fine, I'll just wait this out for as long as they'll let me.

I can pretty easily tell them apart, even from inside the tent – Cora's high-pitched voice, clipped and almost cheery, Marcus' even tone, Jewel's throaty laugh, and then Manari's… few contributions. What a jackass. I'm not sore or anything. It's fine.

From what I can tell, Cora's just been doing her medicine-girl routine all morning, which seems to make her happy – Manari and Jewel were probably a bit beat up when they made it back to camp. She and Marcus grilled them for a bit about their hunt. I heard Samil's name come up a few times

Everything just feels like hot waves – in the middle of summer, when the ocean is like a pot on its way to boil and even the crashing surf is warm.

Everything is just waves, ebbing around my ears. I can pretend this is normal – feeling like this is normal. In the tent, at least, I'm just listening to a movie from another room. Enrique is watching the Games while I make breakfast. The Careers are licking their wounds after a rough night. I'm carving the meat from sea grapes and thinking I'd do so much better, in their place…

Renata shifts in her sleep. I try not to jolt out of my skin.

This shouldn't be so hard. I just need to get my shit together. Get my head back in the right place.

Once I'm out of the tent, I decide, I'll be back to normal. No more confused or scared than the cheerful voices from outside – Cora making some kind of joke, because Marcus is the only one who laughs. They sound so normal. So completely fine.

I'll be fine too, once I'm out. I'm better than this, for fuck's sake. I can't crack before _Cora_.

What would Enrique think?

He must be watching.

He has to see – I was right, like all those mornings watching the Games – I can do this, I'm just as good as they are, as I think I am. I just have to be that person, that steady past-me, carving away pale purple flesh from seedy pits with a paring knife.

It's not so different. The motion is the same.

And I may not be fancy like Marcus or big like Manari and Renata or … well, whatever Cora's deal is, I know I'm not like them. But I don't have to be. I've seen so many tributes from District 4 try and fail and they were all … not me. I have to believe I have something. I do! I have so much. I could leave this tent and kill two of them before they realized and tried to stop me.

I wouldn't. I wouldn't do that.

But I could.

Renata shifts again. I think they can hear from outside of the tent.

"Maybe we should wake Four," Jewel suggests. "They wouldn't want to miss the action, I'm sure."

"Okay!" Cora says. "You wanna do it?"

I can't tell who she's talking to until I hear a soft voice just a few inches away.

"Anyone awake in there?" Marcus asks cautiously.

Smart on his part. I brought my knife in with me. He'd be in for a real surprise if he tried to wake me up before I was ready. Anyone messing with me… a real surprise, let me tell you.

"Gettin' up," I say, finding that my unused voice still sounds a bit groggy. "Yo, Renata, _despiértate_."

"They're on their way," Marcus reports, as Renata grumbles in her sleep.

"Good morning," I say, nudging her with my elbow, which isn't hard because we're practically on top of each other. "Up and at 'em."

She murmurs something I can barely hear – and I'm sure Neveah, from his seat in some control room somewhere, is grateful that her exclamation is in a language that no one in the Capitol would reasonably understand.

"No need to be crass," I say, nudging her again. "Come one. We've had a few hours."

Blinking her dark brown eyes open, Renata squints at me blearily.

"Vete a la mierda, es demasiado temprano..."

"None of that, Neveah said we had to talk normal, remember? Let's go have some breakfast. That'll wake you up."

She grumbles something that sounds suspiciously profane, but at least in Panem's common tongue, and stretches, squishing me against the wall of the tent.

" _I'm_ getting up," I say, a bit grouchily.

But this is good. This is normal. We're both being normal. She was … not herself, last night, either. Angry Renata, frustrated Renata, I know how to deal with that. It's comfortable, familiar. It's our thing.

Slipping out of the zippered opening to the tent, I have room to stretch myself – and I do, feeling my spine crack from my hips to my neck. I'm not too badly cut up or anything. Now that I'm in the open air, I can smell something delicious boiling, though it's so bright that it takes me a few moments to adjust and actually see what it is.

"I'm making coffee," Cora announces. "Would you like some?"

She's got a pot bubbling merrily over – to her credit – a pretty well-constructed fire.

"A hot beverage?" I say warily. "I'm sweating so much, I'm basically a fucking beverage myself."

She laughs, politely.

Jewel and Manari both seem to be asleep – but out in the open, him with his leg propped up and his foot wreathed in bandages on a crate, her, I notice with some distaste, curled up and resting her head on his bicep.

They're being very cute, the two of them. Cora and Marcus seem to be politely ignoring them, him eating a bowl of something, her working on the coffee.

"It'll help you wake up," she suggests, and I notice that Marcus has a cup with a handle on his cooling near where he's seated on the sand.

"Maybe Renata will need that, but not me," I say. "I got plenty of sleep."

My face feels a little itchy and tight – I go to scratch it and my fingernails catch on spots of blood dried onto my face. All the sudden, I can smell it again. My stomach turns.

Cora is watching my face closely. Alarmingly closely. Should I say something? Ask her what her problem is? Never see a guy touch his face before?

"Do you want a rag to clean that off?" she offers with a smile.

I'm imagining aggression that isn't there. She has no reason to think I'm weak. I killed someone last night, for fuck's sake – a real threat, not some scared District 5 girl. What has she done, since she's been in the arena? Who has she killed? She's been standing guard and making coffee.

"Sure," I say. "Thanks."

Can't get paranoid. That would be bad. Can't be breaking down now.

"There's also rice," Marcus offers, as Cora wets a cloth at the Cornucopia and offers it to me. "It's more like rice-porridge the way Cora's made it, but it's more cooled down than the coffee and you need to eat."

I accept a bowl of rice and set about wiping off my face with the cloth.

"Sorry," Cora is telling Marcus, now. "I didn't know you weren't supposed to stir it. I just didn't want it to burn."

He laughs as I begin to eat.

"It's no big deal, Cora, I appreciate the effort. Aren't you gonna eat some yourself? You need to eat. You know that's what Claudia would say."

The rice porridge is bland but filling. It reminds me of a thousand other breakfasts back at home, on mornings when leftover rice was the best I could do for myself and my little brother.

"I know, but I'm not hungry," Cora complains. "When can we go? I want to _run_."

An odd request – but Marcus' response is interrupted by Renata's emergence from the tent, her hair tangled like seaweed around her shoulders.

"Coffee?" Cora offers, brushing away any talk of food or running.

With some noise barely more than a grunt, Renata accepts a steaming mug and takes a seat in the sand.

"You're quiet this morning," Marcus observes, giving me a thoughtful look. "Slept okay? Cora said you both came back pretty late, and the two of you were responsible for the cannon last night. Nice going."

I nod brusquely. Making up my response to that as I go.

"Yeah, it was an exhausting night," I say. "But it's good to be back at it."

That seems to work. He nods like I've made a reasonable amount of sense.

"What's the plan this morning?" Renata asks, from beneath her wild bedhead – tent head.

How does Marcus still look exactly like he did in the Capitol, when we were getting eight hours of rest in a night? At least Cora has the common decency to look exhausted under her chipper demeanor. The bruisey circles beneath her dark eyes, faint back in training, have deepened dramatically. The vibe is very raccoon-y.

"Jewel and Manari are sleeping off some ugly wounds," Marcus explains. "We've treated them both as best we can. They won't get a full sleep cycle in before we head out, but they should have thought of that before they came back so late."

Cora nods assent.

I wonder if I'd be able to make that kind of call with complete certainty – just say 'tough luck', even though I can't call myself a fan of Manari. Marcus doesn't bat an eye, though he must know how hard on the two of them it'll be, dealing with guard shifts for the rest of the day on maybe one and a half hours of sleep.

But he doesn't hesitate, seems to be daring me or Renata to challenge his edict on whether or not our allies will spend the rest of the day in an exhausted haze.

Would I do that? I think I would. Jewel is nice, but I'm here to win. And fucked-up foot or not, Manari has been nothing but a dick to me.

I'd probably be better off if they bit it at this point, though not at the expense of all of our supplies, I guess.

"So where are we going?" Renata clarifies, still looking a little off-balance, fresh out of unconsciousness.

"Cora and I can do the marshy woods," Marcus says. "Last night, did you learn anything that might help us go in the right direction?"

"We didn't run into anyone but … Bian, from District Nine," Renata explains slowly. "Just be careful, it gets darker than you'd expect, and there's places where the trees are really close together and it's hard to move."

Marcus nods. "Noted."

It's interesting, how he picks up so much more of the leadership when Jewel is asleep and I'm still on the edge of not myself. Marcus is a shapeshifter. He seems to fit effortlessly into whatever role is called for.

I'm like that too, though. I'm doing well with this. Doing what has to be done. Renata is really the one I'm worried about, the one who seemed … furthest from okay, last night.

Would she have just let Bian run away?

What kind of trainee does that?

"Actually," I say, wanting to push back, feeling strangely challenged by Marcus' adoption of authority, "Renata and I should probably take the marsh forest. Wasn't Samil back in the pine forest?"

Marcus gives me a hard questioning look – like, you have twenty seconds to explain what you mean by that.

"Wouldn't Cora feel better if she was, y'know, the one to get him? After what he did? And the Capitol, like, they love that shit. Symmetry," I say.

Cora looks from me to Marcus.

"I mean, he's right," she says, reaching up and tugging on Marcus' sleeve as he continues to make unbroken eye contact with me, like staring me down will reveal some ulterior motive. "Marcus, you know, I'd really like to … you know that would be good."

The way he narrows his eyes at me – I knew he didn't trust me, none of the better district trainees trust us. But I didn't know the extent of it. Is he threatened? Or just … is he picking up some vibe I'm not realizing that I'm giving off?

The paranoia – can't let it get to me. He doesn't know anything I don't. It's easy to think, with those eyes, but he… he doesn't know anything more than me.

"Marcus?" Cora pushes. "Can we?"

Has he blinked this whole time, or am I just losing my fucking mind?

"Fine," Marcus finally says, turning to Cora. "I'm not so eager to get my feet wet, anyway. Angel wants to go to the swamp, Angel and Renata can take the swamp. C'mon, Cora, help me pack up."

They shift to their feet and move into the mouth of the Cornucopia – I realize Renata is shooting daggers at me with her eyes.

"You dumbass," she says quietly. "After your bullshit last night? A fucking power play with the guy who we watched cut a dude in half? What's wrong with you?"

I shake my head, feeling like some kind of haze is still hovering around me. If only I could shake off this weird feeling,

"I don't know," I say. "I don't… I don't know."

"Don't get my head cut off over some shit you 'don't know'," she practically spits. "You can't push these people unless you have a plan to get us out of here if this goes south, okay? Why do you want to go back there anyway? Fucking Christ."

"He wouldn't…"

"You don't know shit about him! About any of these people! They are _different_ than us, Angel, are you not picking that up?"

"Look, whatever got me fucked up last night, I'm past it, okay?" I say. "I got tired, you did too, it's not a big deal! We made it back just fine."

"I can't believe," she snaps, "after everything we've done, you're gonna get us killed for your _stupid macho bullshit_ , bringing us back in there…"

"Hey," I counter, defensive now, "the sponsors gotta see that we haven't lost our shit or something. We're not scared of a little soggy forest and I'm not a little bitch who's gonna let an early district prettyboy push me around for no reason, eleven or not!"

"Not to be too unbearable of an early district prettyboy," Marcus says flatly, walking back over with Cora at his side. "But we're probably going to head out, Cora doesn't want to hang around any longer than we have to. I don't mean to _push_ , but if you wouldn't mind waking Jewel before you leave for the marsh, that'd be great."

Renata seems frozen, but I'm just so _done_ with these two and their bullshit.

"Totally doable, yeah," I say, matching the dryness of his tone.

"Great," he says. "It'd be nice to come back to find we still have our supplies. Good luck, both of you."

I'm seething to say something – do something – but I just don't know what, and all I can do is nod and watch in silence as the pair from District 2 disappear into the pine forest and Renata seethes next to me.

"You're an actual idiot," she says, finally.

"Let's just clean up our dishes and make our packs," I say, ignoring her comment, grinding my teeth.

It'll be worth it, going back – she doesn't understand, but we both have something to prove now. I wouldn't expect her to get it. It's been so easy for Renata, being the only serious girl in training. She's never had to really compete for shit, before this. No wonder she's cracking under the pressure.

Not like me. I won't crack. I'm holding it together.

It takes us a while to get our packs set up, because Marcus and Cora have been in charge of the supplies so far and I have no idea what we have or where it is. I can't believe how much power we've given them – just because, what, they got stabbed a bit? Renata is stony silent and uncommunicative while we work, so _that's_ lots of fun. We mostly end up repacking the stuff we brought out the first time, though I add a lot of extra food. Enough to last us a long time.

Just in case.

"Look," I finally say, my words coming out in a clumsy rush as I've been mulling them over for so long, "We need to go back and prove that we can do it right."

"You think the problem was that we… _did it_ wrong?" Renata asks slowly, brows raised in disbelief.

"Well, yeah," I say, shrugging. "We have to actually do what we were trained to do. This is more for you than for me, man – I'm looking out for you, here. You chickened out, okay? You can't do that next time."

A muscle strains in her jaw. I take a solid step back, in case she decides to clock me.

With a deep breath, Renata seems to find her cool.

"I'm gonna pretend you didn't just say that about me," she says. "We need to get out of here. Maybe for good. There's still 13 people left and we're signed on until final 10, but I think we need to get out before things get worse. I would've rather gone for the less-damp forest, but you _brilliantly_ set us up in a swamp."

"You want to _leave_?"

"Do I need to translate it? Explain in another language? Yes, pendejo, I want to leave!"

We can't leave yet, though, not when I don't know if I can trust Renata to help me out there – can't trust her not to freeze up, can barely trust myself… if we could just talk about what happened! But we _can't_ , so we're just stuck on this stalemate, and apparently whatever went down in her brain last night has convinced her we can't be part of this alliance anymore.

"One more cycle of hunting trips," I say, finally.

It seems a better course to negotiate with her rather than trying to put my foot down.

"Will you ease up if I agree to it?" she demands. "Will you not poke the fucking bear? The eleven-scoring bear with a sword that could cut me in half? Same with Jewel and Manari and – hell, any of them could snap on us! You push them so much! Your dumbass interview bullshit and your dumbass questions during training and now just … god! I can't believe you! You think you're playing with, what, resident inlander asshole Skiff Grandin from training but on steroids? No! They could kill either of us in a second and they wouldn't give a fuck! They'd go right back to joking about rice porridge!"

"You're not… _scared_ of them?" I ask after a long pause.

"You'd have to be as brainless as a fucking sea sponge not to be scared of these people," she spits.

I sigh deeply. Of course it would be something like this, as if feeling vaguely inadequate is some excuse to just quit out of a very useful alliance before the assigned end – when we'll only provoke some kind of response that we _so_ don't need right now.

"Look," I say, "we agreed to final 10. If we hold out until then, there's odds someone else in the alliance will kick it. We won't be targeted for having flaked. It's an overreaction to try to run away now. Because it'll just get us fucked up, okay? One more hunting cycle."

She huffs out an angry breath.

" _Fine_. Fine! Let's just go."

" _Fine_ ," I shoot back.

Slinging our backpacks over our shoulders, we retreat to the treeline of the swamp forest. So Unassuming in the light of the morning.

"Shouldn't we…" Renata begins to suggest before we walk in. "We left them… asleep."

"You want to wake them up, do it yourself," I say, conscious of a little petulance coloring my tone.

Isn't this what Renata wants? If they get killed, that's two closer to us getting out of here.

And I'm sure as fuck not gonna do something just because Marcus says so. Our packs are heavy with supplies. Hopefully District 2 was as smart about long-term packing as we were.

Marcus can be as cold as he wants, and I'll be even colder. Fuck him and his 'they shouldn't have gotten back so late'. They shouldn't have gotten themselves so badly injured, either.

The look Renata shoots me is not so much withering as it is… worried.

"If we're gonna do this now, we shouldn't come back, Angel," she says, her tone devoid of its harsh edge.

"We'll do this now _and_ we'll come back – and either way, it'll be fine. They'll need our supplies if something happens, anyway."

She stops completely, looking conflicted.

"Hey, don't make this harder than it is," I say. "Getting rid of those two would be the best thing we could possibly do for the rest of the arena. You practically said that yourself. Now let's go hunt."

Looking equal parts sad and perplexed by the abrupt 180 I must seem to have turned, Renata follows me into the swamp forest.

In my peripheral vision, I watch to ensure she doesn't look back.

"I wish we were better than them," she says, almost too quietly for me to hear.

" _Well_ , we're not," I retort. "We're _exactly the same_. Come on. We've got places to be and people to kill."

x

 _This past week will fuel my hilarious stand-up comedy routines for at least the next year, but (reference to the meme, not me calling y'all bitches) I LIVED BITCH! Unfortunately I lost my phone and then watched it get run over by a car in Ybor and it took me three hours but I bartered my way home with $22 in singles, a glitter snowglobe, and an hour's worth of conversation about Venezuelan politics because I am a parody of myself._

 _If you live in the US, learn to speak Spanish, it may save your life someday._


	43. Day 2: Late Morning by the Beach

Day 2: Late Morning by the Beach

x

Patient, plodding, a green skin  
growing over whatever winter did to us, a return  
to the strange idea of continuous living despite  
the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,

I'll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf  
unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I'll take it all.

'Instructions on Not Giving Up', Ada Limón

x

Fidan Said, District 7

We've been walking for a long time – I'd say in silence, but that's just been me, keeping my mouth clamped shut and my ears open, trying to stay in tune with my surroundings as Yuna and Statice talk. It's good, that they're getting to know each other. I keep reminding myself of that. It'll keep them from arguing again.

"So, is that your token?" Statice is asking her.

"Oh, this?" Yuna says, fiddling with the gold ring on her pinky. "Yeah, it's got the District Six seal. My mom got it when she got her medical certification. There's a whole story behind that."

"Not to push you," Statice says, "but a nice story might raise the morale a little bit."

Yuna laughs. "Did I say 'nice'? Well, I guess it works."

Knee deep in murky swamp water, it's hard to imagine anything being especially nice. I would much rather be up in the oak trees – they're certainly close enough to travel through, in this part of the swamp – but I have allies, and I need to stay with them. Yuna established during training that she didn't have the familiarity or strength necessary to navigate through the treetops. Statice? With his build, tall and gawky, it's hard to imagine him doing anything but breaking his neck.

I remember how hard it was to learn, back when I started assaying – but that's its own story.

"So, my grandpa was a huge penny-pincher," Yuna explains. "When you graduate high school, you can get little ribbons and cords to signify what you did. He wouldn't let my mom spend money on that sort of thing. Frivolous, y'know. But she went to school for medicine and so she eventually had another graduation."

"Is this just a story about how your mom went to medical school?" Statice interrupts.

"That would be a boring story," Yuna says. "Anyway, when you graduate, you can buy a ring with the seal. It's a big ceremonial thing. Real gold. Obviously, my mom didn't have enough money, but she asked her dad – and this time it worked, because she knew how to make her case! This was back when District One was hitting gold shortages, so the price was going up really fast. She convinced him to buy her a ring as an investment piece, since the value would only rise. Even then, though, he would only get her the smallest one – a pinky ring."

Statice laughs. "Okay, that's kinda funny."

"It's all in how you tell it," Yuna says.

My token, a carved-wood pendent of a pine tree that Naya made me in school strung on a thin leather thong, feels light and rough against my chest under my tight brown shirt.

"Mine's a gilded peach pit," Statice explains, pulling what looks like an oddly-shaped gold nugget from his pocket. "My parents assumed stewardship of a bunch of orchards during reconstruction. My dad had it made a while back – they've been trying to get me into the family business since I was a kid. I guess it could be worse."

"I know what you mean," Yuna replies with a snort. "Parents, right? Think they got your whole life planned out for you, and then something like this happens."

"At least your pharmacist routine sells well," Statice sighs. "It's a useful skill, I guess."

"What, and growing peaches isn't?"

"Yeah, give me a decade or two and some ag subsidies and I'll feed this alliance. Hope no one kills us before I get to prove how useful I am."

He seems to realize that I haven't been participating in the conversation.

"Of course, we're both just holding Fidan back. She could be miles from here by now if we weren't too stupid to climb trees," he adds.

"What's your token, Fidan?" Yuna asks.

I shift nervously. I shouldn't be ashamed of Naya's carving, it's very nice. There's nothing to be embarrassed of.

"It's not… gold or anything," I say hesitantly, drawing my pendant out through the neckline of my shirt. "My sister made it."

"Oh," Yuna says. "It's so _nice_. Naya – that's her sister's name, Statice – is so talented."

"She really is," I say quietly.

I'm not worried or anything about how much they seem to be hitting it off, now that they're talking about neutral subjects. In fact, that's a good thing – it's good that they're getting along. I was worried Yuna would keep snapping at Statice until we scared him off or something.

But they really do have similar backgrounds, even though they're from different districts, and it makes me think… does Yuna really need me? Does Statice? Would they be happier if it had just been the two of them in an alliance from the start? He had Dasheen, who was great, of course, but…

I dunno. It's just got me kind of on edge, feeling like a spare axe with a loose handle in the back of a truck. Like, sure, if it comes down to it, better than no axe at all. But conversation seems to flow easier without me participating.

I've felt disconnected from this whole thing for so long, in part because … the reality of where we are and what we're doing is so beyond what I can deal with. Easier to think about anything else, really, _anything_ else. Anything but the present moment and what my family must be going through at home. Without my wages. I heard something about a stipend – but will it make up for the income I was bringing in? Will Naya have to drop out? She shouldn't have to, if _anyone_ deserves a real education… it's her…

At least she has Khamsa and mom and dad. They've made things work before. They'll make it work.

No, can't linger on this.

Anything else. Think about anything else.

Glumly, I watch the cloudy black water ripple around my footsteps. It seems to be getting shallower, I observe. Hopefully that's a good sign. Yuna and Statice are bickering about biology exams. It's been years since I even thought about an exam.

"Uh, hey," I say, "the terrain is changing again."

"Just the shallower water, right?" Statice asks. "I've been noticing it's easier to walk."

"Different trees, too," I say. "Cedars again, the knobby-root ones. They grow more thick on the fringes of a marsh like this than in deep water."

They must have taught us the difference between marshes and swamps in school at some point – it's useful in assaying, at least, though that box on the paperwork is always checked for me. I think it has something to do with the chemicals in the water. I wouldn't know too much about those or how to tell which is which. Maybe Yuna would know.

I don't want to ask her, though. For now, knowing about trees and stuff is all I'm really bringing to the table. I don't want her to think I was lying or anything. She gets suspicious sometimes – and like, I did too, after the night on the roof when she didn't show, so I can't blame her, I'm the same.

But I don't want to give her a reason.

"Smell that?" Yuna says, wrinkling her nose. "It's like back at the Cornucopia. Salt."

The trees are thinning and the ground drying out even more. We're no longer swishing in water – instead, our footsteps are accompanied by the suction sound of thick mud.

"I didn't get a good look at the water, back when we were running away," Static says. "But it was so big. I've never seen that before in person. We're really by the ocean, and not some kind of Capitol resort ocean either."

We've all seen the old television shows – the ads, the occasional features in other districts – highlighting the sort of landforms you'd never encounter at home. Panem is big. Bigger than we need to know about. I was too curious as a child, in school. Wanted to know just how much of it there was. I got in trouble for talking back when Ms. Lightwood told us it wasn't our job to care.

She was always kinda difficult, thought she knew better than us. I didn't like that about most of my teachers. I hate being condescended to. How our teachers always acted like their lesson plans came straight from President Lancaster and were totally above any kind of questioning!

How have Statice and Yuna put up with school for so long? Naya's such a people pleaser, I get why she gets all excited about it, but it just doesn't make sense to me, that people like the two of them would be so _into_ the whole thing.

Things must be really different outside of District 7. I never thought we had it especially bad, but maybe I was wrong. There's a whole lot of world out there that I was never allowed to ask about.

It's been so much walking. I would rather be in the trees. Maybe Yuna will be willing to rest in a nice oak next time we come across one. She's acting like she has a plan, but she hasn't really _talked_ to me since last night after the pictures in the sky.

I'm a little worried what her plan might turn out to be. She seemed so angry. Not that I don't understand where that comes from – from looking too close at the reality of our situation.

I thought we were just going to run, though, and that was the whole thing. But it seems like things have gotten more complicated. She's really… facing things. I'm not, I guess. I can't imagine trying to … accept it, work within this. I'd rather distance myself from it. Keep what I can of who I was before. Even if it's not as flashy as Yuna or Statice, even if I'm not coated in a layer of gold like them. Who I was before – she was _okay_ , people liked her. I liked being her.

It would be okay by me, to just… do what I can to stay alive for as long as I can, but hopefully die quick when the Gamemakers get bored. I think that would be a perfectly honorable way to go out.

She probably isn't really thinking about winning. Or maybe she is. I don't really _know_ her. She didn't tell me about the crackers she ate last night in the tree. I don't want to read into it too much, but I also don't want to be stupid and trust her more than she trusts me.

It's dumb. I'm stuck in my own head and I should be joining in with Yuna and Statice, laughing and joking and ribbing each other and making us look engaging enough to deserve a camera angle or two. That's what Statice recommended, and Yuna seemed to understand where he was coming from, even if she's got some issues with his district.

"Oh man," Statice says, bringing me into the conversation with the volume of his tone. "It's been a long time since I saw _that_!"

"Saw what?" I ask, looking up from my feet.

"The horizon!" he says excitedly, pointing ahead. "We're almost through the trees!"

The ground has definitely gotten drier and sandier. I try to shuffle my feet so I don't leave such obvious tracks. Hopefully they haven't gotten so into their conversation that they've forgotten where we are.

"Well, it's a landmark other than a bunch of trees, so that's good," Yuna says with a sigh. "It feels like we've been walking in circles for the last day. Want to stop and eat?"

"You don't have to ask me twice," Statice says, laughing. "What's on the menu?"

"A delicious meal of dried meat and chocolate, looks like," Yuna announces, slinging her bag from her shoulder. "Split three ways, plus the last of the quart bottle of water."

I grimace. "Sounds delicious. I could look around for something we can eat that's actually like, growing?"

I wasn't seeing anything particularly familiar knee deep in water, but I didn't usually work in particularly damp forests. I'd be a lot more in my comfort zone if we were on mossy soil, surrounded by towering white pines … but they wouldn't grow here, not in this sort of heat and overbearing humidity. Different parts of District 7 might have this kind of growth going on, but unfortunately, I'm not a swamp expert by any means.

Close enough, though. Close as we got. At least I can take pride in that.

"That would be great," Yuna says warmly. "We're not exactly overflowing with supplies at the moment, even with what Statice is contributing. Between the three of us, things'll get tight pretty soon."

So, off I go.

Paying attention to the position of the treeline and the beginning of the stretch of sodden grey sand, I walk with the coast to my right, about fifty feet into the woods. Good assayers are quiet, not slow, but deliberate and attentive to their surroundings.

Without Yuna and Statice tromping along with me, I barely disturb the underbrush. If I weren't specifically looking for plants that might be close to the ground, I could swing up into the trees and move in almost complete silence – the way you're supposed to get your baseline in the canopy to make sure there's nothing dangerous in the immediate area.

Alone, I feel a deep and unsettling sense of relief. I know that I need this alliance – without Yuna, I'd still be crying in the oak tree last night over Ollie, might be too boring to be allowed to continue taking up space in the arena, might not even have made it away from the Cornucopia.

It may feel good to have some space, but… I know myself, I know I need people to go back to or the woods would just swallow me up.

After a few minutes, I find a patch of beggarticks – which is what I was looking for, after noticing a couple of stray needles, about half an inch long, hooked to my shoes. They're one of the species we look out for specifically, though they're more common in the marshes. Someone, somewhere, is looking to curb their spread. If we find them, we're supposed to pull them up.

Word is, among a few other assayers, though, that you can eat the leaves if they're not too leathery and old. The young ones are actually worth it, whereas the old ones are too tough to be nutritious at all. I've never had them myself, but I've seen pictures of the distinctive clumsy-looking daisy-type flowers.

The smell is pretty strong and kind of abrasive, like sunscreen, but I snap off a tiny sprig of green outgrowth and pop it in my mouth.

Not pleasant, but it's better than nothing.

I gather a few handfuls of only the smallest, palest green leaves and shoots, and roll up my shirt to make a little pocket to store them in. Then, minding the direction of the horizon – keeping it at my left as I trail through the woods – I make my way back to Statice and Yuna.

Except they're not there. The sand is disturbed from their presence, but there's clearly been an effort to clear away footprints and signs of life.

My stomach turns, and not just because I've barely eaten since breakfast. Did something happen? Are they hurt? Did Careers come and nab them? No, I haven't heard any cannons.

 _Did they just decide to leave_? a nagging voice in the back of my head demands.

I swallow, feeling how dry my throat is. I need water soon, and not the kind that's roiling against the mushy sand on the shore.

"Fidan!" someone stage-whispers from above me, and I look up and back to the treeline to see Yuna and Statice in the branches of an oak. "Come back here!"

Oh, thank god.

Not sure what danger might be lurking, I sprint over, roll my tight shirt up further to preserve the beggarticks leaves as I climb, and spring up to the lowest branch, scrabbling at the heavily textured bark. I wonder how long it took Yuna and Statice to get up. She's not a quick climber. Maybe they helped each other?

"So, we got trouble," Statice says, as if it needs saying. "I went pretty far down the treeline to see if I could get a sense of where we were, and, well, I did. We're like, right by the Cornucopia. I didn't stick around long enough to get stabbed to death, but there's definitely at least two people there. Three tents set up, but they're sleeping outside. It could be a setup."

" _Trainees_?" I ask. "Asleep?"

"Doesn't seem likely, right?" Yuna confirms. "I don't like it."

"This may not be the time, but I got some greens," I say, not wanting to suppress my relatively good news any longer. "I can teach you guys how to get them, too."

"Yeah, that's great," Yuna says distractedly. "Put them in the plastic bag the crackers came in?"

I comply, stifling a sigh. Oh well. _I'm_ still pleased with myself. It's no big deal.

" _Bidens alba_ ," I add, knowing that's probably the only part of the plant she'll be interested in.

"Oh," Yuna responds, suddenly paying attention. "Phenylheptatriyne – some antimicrobial properties, especially fungi. Potential component of replacement antifungal drugs."

Statice looks impressed.

"Damn," he says. "You were about to ace that exam."

"Speaking of which, Fidan," Yuna says, ignoring him. "Cicutoxins – _Cicuta maculata_? If we're going to fight back, we need real weapons. Have you seen that – we learned about it at the plants station, do you remember?"

"Water hemlock," I say, correcting her. "And no, but I haven't been looking. Thinking back to stories, though, if you want poison so bad – just being too close to a manchioneel can kill you. They look like apple trees, but they can be bigger. You have to be careful of them, especially in a swamp."

I know my horror stories well enough from scaring Naya up until I realized it was actually making her worry about me and I had to stop.

"Manchioneel?" Yuna wrinkles her nose. "Do you know anything else about it? I've never heard of that."

"It's a big tall tree with tiny fruits that look just like apples," I say, trying not to slip into my story voice. "If you think you can slack off and have a snack, though – that's how it gets you. A few years back, a lazy assayer, her first week on the job, didn't trust her boss when he told her to stay away from fruit trees in her plot. She didn't even get the chance to eat the fruits – she fell asleep at the base of the tree, thinking she'd have a meal when she finished her nap. But she _never woke up_. When they found her, just two days later, her body was so bloated with blisters and rot that she split in half when her crew tried to move her away – one of them got too close to the tree and he died too."

It's the most I've talked all day. By the end of the story, Statice is staring at me, saucer-eyed.

Yuna just seems lost in thought.

"It blisters when you touch it?" she asks.

"The sap is supposed to be so poisonous, just the smell can kill you," I explain. "All I know is, it looks like apples and you have to stay away. I've never seen one myself."

"It sounds like the sort of story you'd tell to try to keep your workers from slacking off," Statice says doubtfully. "Like, why would you _ever_ trust a story where the moral is 'don't ever slack or you'll die'?"

"I dunno, Statice," Yuna says sharply, "why would _you_ call the Hunger Games 'fun'?"

"Oh _my god_ , can you lay off for twenty seconds?" he complains. "I said it was fun to watch the post-Games, when the victor goes to other districts and talks with the people there! I thought you _liked_ culture sharing!"

"Now because I allied with someone from District Seven I'm into _culture sharing_?" Yuna replies.

" _I didn't say_ … you're taking me out of context. Okay, look, I'm sorry I said anything, Fidan is right, the story is real."

"Uh, _so_ ," I say, hoping to break the tension, "uh, Yuna, what did you want with this tree stuff anyway? Is there a plan? Because I haven't seen any of these plants, but we could try to find them. Water hemlock usually grows in… y'know, water, so we could go back in the swamp…"

She finally drags her smoldering glare away from Statice, takes a deep breath, and refocuses her attention on me.

"Yeah," she says. "That's a good move. We can set up shop up in these trees, keep just enough distance between us and them, and then … we'll show them what we can do."

"Wiping out the Careers?" Statice says. "Power move."

"Well, we _may_ have to wait until something happens to their supplies, or engineer something happening to their supplies, or … well, I'm not totally sure yet, but we'll make it happen," Yuna says grimly.

"The alternative," I say hesitantly, "is that we run away. Because Statice said at least two of them are there. Asleep or not, trap or not, do we really want to be any closer to them than we can avoid?"

"And what, die as we run away?" Yuna demands. "Watch from the trees while they wipe out the rest of the arena? Who's still out there – District Three? Those two late-district asshole guys? How long until we're on the menu?"

"There are thirteen people left in the arena," I say. "At least twelve will die no matter what we do. I think it's just a question of what we're _willing_ to do."

"Well, I'm actually with Yuna," Statice says, adjusting his glasses. "Maybe that's just because they murdered my district partner in front of me, but I say go out in a blaze of glory."

"Yeah…" Yuna says, suddenly looking distant. "That's it – we burn the supplies. Make the only water source something we can control. We have to find the water hemlock, or your fancy machi-tree, but we can… we can make this happen. There's a lot of moving parts, but we can take them out."

I must look a bit put off by the poison plan, because Yuna is back to leveling with me.

"Hey, Fidan, they killed Oliver. They killed Lucas – Charlotte – Andre, little kids. You know they did. Like it was nothing. Like it didn't even matter to them. The important part of them is already dead. We can't just let them keep doing it. They'll kill us."

"The _Gamemakers_ will kill us," I say quietly.

"Well, we can't very well poison _them_ ," Yuna says, almost laughing. "Let's stay away from the beach for now, in case they ever get a line of sight on us. We can eat some of those leaves you brought us, and then we'll go over how to identify water hemlock and start looking, okay?"

I nod quietly, not sure if this is what I want, but understanding, at least, where she's coming from.

One of them killed Ollie. Just killed him and hasn't lost a wink of sleep over it. That much I can't explain away.

But I can feel the hefty branch of the live oak beneath me, and I just wish… I wish I could will myself back into my assaying gear, a clipboard anchored to my hip, alone with the birdsong and the air. Back where the biggest challenge of my day was encountering a strange orange ent or a bird I didn't recognize right off the bat. Where I'd come home to Khamsa making dinner and Naya chattering about school and my parents, worn out but still a constant in my life, comforting with their presence if not frequently with their words.

I just hope they're all okay. I hope they're not disgusted by me. I hope they don't hate me for what I'm doing and who I'm doing it with.

I don't think they would. But I'm so scared of letting them down. Not just of dying, but of dying as a disappointment or a district traitor or a villain.

Yuna seems so certain, though, and I think… I think it makes sense, I don't think they can hate me for helping her avenge Ollie and Lucas. No one likes the trainees back home. No one's cheering for them.

I can't unsee them as people, but if Yuna can… she's my ally. And I'll be with her all the way. For better or for worse, no matter what.

x

 _My brilliant ass chose 'writing this chapter' over 'talking to nice girl I met the other day' or 'preparing for the conference this weekend' so welcome to the hell my brain lives in! I think I said Manari and then Bridget after this - then Cora, and I'm not gonna project any further ahead for fear of spoilers._


	44. Day 2: Almost Noon

Day 2: Almost Noon

x

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.  
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:

Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned  
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

'Dirge Without Music', Edna St. Vincent Millay

x

Manari Issa, District 1

I wake to a pulsing pain in my foot, and the unfamiliar feeling of 'injured' sends my mind back to the Center... back _home_. For a few moments, I can't process the sun overhead or the sand beneath me or the awkward angle of my leg propped up on a crate.

The last day of real training - real, competitive training - was the day before my selection as volunteer was formally announced. After that, there was still work to do, of course, but more maintenance work after ten long years in the Center's care. No more injuries, nothing that would put me at risk. It's been a long time - months - since I've been hurt, longer since I've been hurt like this.

It's healing, though, just like it would if I'd fractured my foot after a bad fall from the gymnastics bars. There's something comforting about that. I can smell a familiar perfume, behind all the salt and sand. Salt and sand…

I open my eyes, but immediately have to close them as the harsh light from overhead practically blinds me. Now I can feel everything the pain was masking - the aches in other bones and joints, the pounding in my head from exposure to sun and lack of sleep. I'm hungry, and I'm exhausted. Nothing comforting about that.

"Oh good," Jewel says, from a few feet away. "You're up. I don't want to push you too hard since you're all broken and shit, but we got abandoned in our sleep and I could use a pair of eyes and potentially someone to kick our allies' asses once they get back, if those dicks dare to show their faces here again. Sorry, that's a lot to spring on someone who just woke up. You hungry?"

I blink. My faculties are not coming back to me quickly enough to deal with all the new information sensibly.

"Breakfast?" I ask simply, in lieu of an answer.

At least I sound like me.

" _You're_ a dick too, y'know?" Jewel says, sounding exasperated and even more tired than I am. "Lucky thing Cora left behind some… mush, I'm gonna say this is mush. But hopefully some good carbs in here, hm? Wake you up a bit. There's coffee too but let's take it slow on that."

"Have you been lonely, with me sleeping?" I grumble, still feeling very groggy and entirely not appreciating the volume of words that are coming my way.

"No, I've been having a fascinating and intimate conversation with my reflection on the Cornucopia. _Fucking yeah_ , man, it's been a long and frustrating morning and I could use someone to talk to. So wake up, okay?"

I sigh deeply and adjust my position on the ground so I can at least see her. Jewel has put herself together pretty well for how worn out she sounds - her tawny hair is pulled back in a ponytail and she's washed her face and changed into fresh clothing. She looks fine without makeup. I'd ask her why she wore so much, in training and again in the Capitol, but Fahrah and my other female cousins have taught me too well to ask any such question of a woman.

Surely, she has her reasons.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," Jewel says, a little sharply - the fuse of her temper seems dangerously short today.

"Sorry," I say. "I'm trying to wake up, but whatever Cora gave me has my head spinning."

"I'm sorry too," she says. "I'm gonna try not to take out how fucking pissed off I am at Two and Four on you. You haven't done anything wrong."

"Do you want to break the alliance?" I ask, a bit concerned.

"Grab what we can carry and go? Not gonna lie, I've been thinking about it, but I'm injured and you're still healing. We should take what security we can get right now. I don't want you running on that foot at least until this evening."

I try to move the damaged foot in question, flexing my calf - it doesn't exactly ignite with pain, but it still hurts enough to make my head swim. I hope I'm not wincing too dramatically. This is terrible for my image. I need to pull this together.

"It'll take a few more hours to rebuild the bone," Jewel says. "I almost wish they'd let us break more stuff. The Twos acted like this was some kind of everyday thing for them."

"I've broken bones," I say, a little offended.

"Your foot, like, before?"

"Well, no, but I fractured my patella one time."

"When Goldie tripped you down the stairs? I was there for that," Jewel laughs. "I mean, like, sparring. We always got armor and padding and all that stuff."

I didn't have _many_ issues at the Center - well, everybody has their issues, whether they sleep with the wrong person or beat the wrong person in a sparring match or just … don't quite fit in. But with time, anyone competent can find their people and make a space for themselves. It's a meritocracy more than anything.

"I don't mean to bring that old stuff up, it was a long time ago," she adds apologetically. "Just, it's funny, they could protect us from each other so well when we were sparring with swords and shit, but not from like… just, meanness, outside of it."

" _She_ didn't get chosen," I say, sitting up, groaning at the pain. "I did. It works out in the end. We receive justice whether we like it or not. Once the dust has settled."

"Glad you're back to normal, Rabbi Manari," she laughs, pushing a bowl of mushed-up rice in my direction. "Eat up. You need food to heal."

"Sequin and Corsage haven't sent you anything… special, for your arm?" I say, finally upright enough to really take in the fact that her left arm is still bandaged and apparently weeping blood.

"Kind of a surprise, right? Maybe they're trying to tell us something. I figure we must be doing something wrong… maybe they're upset we got caught off-guard like that, left asleep at the post," she sighs.

"Do we try to do something to… resolve that? Marcus fixed you up with some antibiotics, right?"

"Yeah, but nothing beyond that. He said they didn't have anything else - he and Cora are still bandaged up, too, and she's still limping. It's not like we're the odd ones out on the healing front. Well, you are, I guess, what with the … healing."

I laugh harshly. 'Healing' is one words for the shooting pains in my foot as the bone knits back together.

"I see you've got your weapon at the ready. Can I trust you to defend me in my infirmity?"

"Oh, shut the fuck up, it's final thirteen, I've got you. No deaths since you've been all zonked out. You can go back to sleep if you really want, but it's not like your hands are broken. You can hold a knife."

"A lot of good that'd do when I'm all the way down here," I say, catching the petulance in my tone a little too late to correct it.

"When you're sitting up you're almost as tall as I am, so quit sulking. Maybe do something useful and see if you can walk on that foot yet."

Trying not to grumble - admittedly, an _unfortunate_ tendency of mine - I drag myself to a standing position, all of my weight on one leg. Slowly, I try to balance myself out a little - the foot, miraculously, holds, without any kind of unbearable agony. I walked _miles_ on this thing, shattered like it was not four hours ago! And here I am, complaining that healing hurts?

It _is_ healing. I should be grateful.

"Masha'Allah," I mutter, too quiet, seemingly, for Jewel to hear me.

I haven't been praying in the arena. It was touch and go whether Corsage would let me hold to it in the Capitol, but not here, in front of cameras. Too foreign from the Capitol's understanding. Most religions are - I understand they don't take kindly to particular strength of faith in any of their tributes, from any system of belief. That's always been Sequin's assurance. I'm not being singled out. Overtly religious tributes, if they make it late in the Games, tend to be portrayed as deluded or just humorously short-sighted, and they don't win.

There is no higher power than the Capitol.

That's something about Charlotte that bothered me, and still does. She believed in something beyond what they could do to her - and I wish I could have known _what_ , I wish I could understand her God and where He took her when she finally died. How she found a way to be free of the horrors she faced.

I like to think I would have the certainty she did, in death. But having never had to truly confront weakness beyond a broken foot or knee, I'm just not certain… I don't want to die, but I wonder sometimes if that makes me something _less_ in the terms by which I will someday be judged.

All that said… my foot works well enough, though the pain comes and goes needle-sharp.

Allah provides for whom He wills.

"Lookin' good," Jewel comments, noting that I am standing relatively stable, without so much as flinching.

"I owe it to our sponsors," I say. "The Capitol provides for those who help themselves."

Blasphemy in the service of continued life. I can make it work.

"A- _men_ to that," Jewel laughs. "You good to walk?"

After a few experimental paces - nothing too terrible seems to be happening, the pain has ebbed beneath my general soreness and exhaustion - I nod in affirmation.

"Sweet," she says. "Why don't you grab a knife then and take these pots down to the shoreline, scrub them off with the salt water? I'll pour you some coffee, and it'll be cooler by the time you get back."

"As you wish," I say, feeling an edge creep into my voice but, again, unable to fully suppress it.

I recognize the necessity of sometimes… 'taking orders' from people I don't consider my superiors. Of course, I don't consider many people my superiors. But I've never been one for being led around, unless by absolute situational imperative.

Jewel is… acceptable. In more ways than I used to believe. And if I can ignore the parts of her that I cannot accept - maybe someday find a way to rationalize those traits that confuse me - I can cooperate with her.

Any of our allies telling me what to do would be asking for a fight, but I think they recognize that at this point.

I take the pots that used to hold the rice-mush and coffee and remove my knife from its sheath - an additional layer of precaution. There's a space on the shoreline where the water only seems to reach at high tides, leaving behind shallow pools when it recedes. It seems more prudent to wash the pots in still water - there's something menacing about those grey-green peaks just a few meters further out.

Using a rag likely torn from a piece of discarded clothing - ew - I scrub the slightly burned rice from the bottom of the pot and diligently clean it back to a useful state, while also glancing between both the ocean and Jewel.

Tired as I am, it's hard to stay completely alert, but some movement catches my eye much further down the coast.

It seems human, bipedal at least.

I freeze, trying to determine a thousand things at once - human? How far away? A tribute or a mutt? A trainee or a district tribute? Traveling from where? In what direction? Not a hallucination? How tired am I?

The pot is clean by now, but I'm still trying to parse out the new information.

The figure has disappeared, seemingly back into the trees. Too far away for any conclusions.

If I had to guess, a woman. Only one person, so likely not any of our allies - too dark and moving too fluidly to be Cora, at least. Too small for Renata. So, a district tribute. Alone?

"Jewel," I call. "Come over here."

She complies, jogging up with her spear from where she's been sorting through supplies.

"What's up, man?" she asks. "Can't figure out the dishwashing thing?"

I roll my eyes, which she definitely notices, because she laughs.

"There was someone walking down the beach - way down that way. If visibility wasn't so good I'd have missed them. I'm thinking district tribute."

She nods.

"So, what's our move?"

"I was going to confer with you on that - it's pretty far, do we risk the supplies?"

"Hmmm. You sure it wasn't like, Renata or Angel or something? I don't think I could interact with our dear sweet allies right now without ending this alliance on day fucking two."

I shrug.

"I'm sure enough."

"It's a great opportunity if it's a district tribute. Like, we're not suffering for lack of kill-count, but it couldn't hurt to impress our sponsors a little," she muses.

"What, we're not impressing them by laying on the beach, licking our wounds in the shadow of the Cornucopia?" I ask, cognizant of my flippancy as the words leave my mouth.

"Someday I'm going to put this through your chest and it's going to feel really fucking good," Jewel sighs. "Sorry, uncalled for."

"No, I'm sorry," I say. "I was… calling for it, as you'd say."

"Can we pull our shit together enough to check it out?" she asks. "Like, are we too spent right now for this? Serious question."

"We're fine," I say, a little sharply.

"If you gotta say it like that, maybe we're not in the right place for this."

"No," I insist. "Let's load up some backpacks and give it a go."

"Maybe just one of us? You only saw one, right?" she asks, still hesitant. "It's just, leaving the Cornucopia unguarded…"

"All four of our allies did exactly the same this morning when they walked out on us still asleep."

"That doesn't make it good for us to do the same. And I really do mean 'good for us', because I'm a few miles past giving a fuck how it affect them, but we're _injured_ ," she says, letting out a frustrated huff.

"That we are," I say.

"It sucks, doesn't it? I hate this. I hate hurting like this. It just sucks. We were just doing exactly what we're supposed to do and this _bullshit_ ," she spits, gesticulating awkwardly with her bandaged arm. "I just… ugh. I hate this. We're worth so much more when we're not hurt."

She's not happy that I've received the medicine to heal my injury and she hasn't. Using 'we' where it's clear, to me at least, that she means 'I'. That, at least, makes sense. I'm sure I'd feel the same in her position. That doesn't make it any less frustrating that she's acting like a child.

"Why don't I go check it out?" I suggest. "Your spear hand is still good, you're clearly capable of protecting the supplies. I won't get myself into anything stupid while I'm hurt. Just recon, that's all. To figure out what's going on."

"Fine," she says, seemingly deflated after the exchange. "You give our audience something to watch and I'll… what did you say? Sit here and lick my wounds in the shade."

"It's not a weakness to be hurt," I lie.

If it weren't a weakness, they'd have let us hurt ourselves more explicitly in training. The Center's doctrine is the one that stands here. Hurt yourself too badly and you're out of the pool. It makes sense. A volunteer who hurts themselves willingly isn't a volunteer who respects their district's decision to put its faith in them.

One of my many hangups with Cora, actually. So cavalier about her body! But that's not my place to judge.

"Yeah, fuck off," Jewel says sharply. "It's fine."

We return to the Cornucopia in silence - I find my pack from the previous night, take out the unused bedroll and add a fresh bottle of water, keeping it light. Before I leave, I finish my bowl of rice and down the cup of coffee Jewel poured me - Cora made some vague warning about the effects of caffeine on veins or something, but I think I'll live. It clears my head, for which I'm grateful enough to brush aside her concern.

My foot is feeling better and better. The needle-sharp pains of healing have receded somewhat, and no longer bother me so severely when I put weight on it. I check my gait and find it relatively normal. Feather-light on the sand despite my size.

The real test is getting a fresh pair of socks, and then my running shoes, back on my feet. _That_ still hurts. But I take comfort in the fact that I have the presence of mind to keep my face from contorting in pain as I slip them on.

"Hey, good luck, be safe," Jewel says, as I finally ready myself to head out. "Come back soon, alright?"

"The only people out there who could give me trouble are still ostensibly our allies," I say, a little grimly.

"Not just people, Manari. It wasn't people who crushed your foot. Be careful."

"You got it," I say, pleased that she seems to have sobered up from her frustration earlier. "You be safe too, okay?"

She cracks a smile.

"Off you go."

It's not a far walk, but with my foot in the now-deeply-uncomfortable laced shoe, it feels like a much longer journey, especially as I break a sweat trying to keep my paces even and measured as they'd be if I'd never been hurt in the first place.

There are few signs of human life on the saturated grey sand of the shore. Troublingly, there are some tracks I can identify - the hooves of boars like the ones Jewel and I encountered - and some I can't, clearly not human, but not evidently anything else. Reptilian? Avian? And then, pitting in the sand in some places - thousands of tiny holes bored as if with an awl.

Nothing entirely disturbs me, though, until I find distinctly human tracks - you don't need to be an expert to see that the treads match those of my own running shoes, but much smaller. Based on the size differential - likely shorter even than Jewel, and much lighter, barely leaving any impression in the sand.

I raise my head and scan the forest nearby. No one on the ground, but that means nothing in an arena with living District 7 and District 11 tributes. These footprints belong to a small young woman like the girl from District 7 - Fidan, with the long feathery dark hair and the chipper answers in her interview.

We took her for a climber from the beginning, though she was careful to avoid those stations that might confirm suspicion. Had a mentor - probably a good one. Scored… something adequate. I was supposed to care, but didn't especially. Jewel would probably know.

I feel eyes on me, which means nothing in an arena scattered with cameras, but is nonetheless disconcerting. Continuing my trek down the beach only a little further, I come across a much more substantial disturbance to the sand. An attempt to clear away tracks, or some kind of struggle? No blood. That would be impossible to hide.

The mess on the sand connects with the forest, and the directionality of the pattern isn't clever enough to obscure where whoever made the mess went. I follow the angle of the attempt to obfuscate the shoemarks. How far into the forest should I go?

I can admit to myself that I'm terrible at tracking in the foliage unless I'm following someone spectacularly stupid or too proud to even make an attempt - such as Samil from last night. I doubt the tributes I'm tracking now are so prideful. They'll be scared, and rightfully so.

Rather than try to pick out any particular tracks, beyond the first things we're taught to look for - clear prints in the soil, recently broken brush - I think instead about where I would hide, if I were a third my size and familiar with treetops. Some of these trees look more suitable than others - I don't have names for them, but some have branches starting well over my height on their trunks, and don't seem like a viable option.

Others have darker and more gnarled bark, small, rounded leaves, and seem to droop low with their first branches only four or five feet up, and apparently thick enough to support even, perhaps, my weight.

I'm not going to fight a District 7 girl in her element, though. My feet, broken or not, will stay firmly on the ground, and I don't have a bow to make attempting to pick them off at all worth the effort.

I carry a knife, despite competence with ranged and heavier weapons, because I'm firmly of the mindset that anyone simply worth killing is worth killing _right_ \- painlessly, with an unseen blade and the name of Allah on my lips. I have no taste for the drawn-out cat-and-mouse fights of the District 2s of the past or the theatrics of most volunteers from District 1. Either I'll kill someone or I won't.

That seems fair, and that seems right, to me. In contrast with much of the killing that goes on here. It reaffirms the morality of what I'm doing. Killing not because I enjoy it, but because it is necessary, and, under these rules, _right_.

I meant what I said to Jewel when I called this a recon mission. I'll find the location of this girl - and perhaps her District 6 ally - and then I'll make a note of it and come home. Perhaps they won't even see me. Increasingly, that's my goal - to find them without scaring them away. A enemy whose location is known is better than an enemy whose position we can't anticipate.

As I carefully pick my way through the forest - not quite a swamp so much as a thick stand of trees - I find myself having difficulty moving quietly. I'm too big for this forest, too broad to avoid brushing rough bark and snapping twigs. So I go still. Just listen.

They don't teach us this, but I was always good at making connections - teaching myself. How to track, how to _really_ listen. How to anticipate what the quarry will do next. Given the opportunity, I might have been an excellent hunter. I was never cut out to deal in business - never cut out to sell rugs and tapestries, however beautiful they might have been.

I think Nayir - if, _when_ he's cut, because he was never quite as strong as me, very much the second child - will do better at following in my father's footsteps. He was always better, at the very least, at lying.

This - the arena, the knife in my hand… is all there's ever been for me. This is the shape Allah's will has taken. His path has led me here.

I hear a whisper. Voices, or wind? I hold my position, remain still as a rose dipped in resin.

A whisper, a voice. The timbre is pitchy, erratic, frightened. I can't make out the words. I try to figure out the direction. Am I being watched? Am I hallucinating with exhaustion?

I move, slowly, to check my own pulse, to see if the movement provokes more whispers. Holding steady. I'm not losing it, I'm pretty sure. A fifteen-second count gives me a rough estimate of 70 BPM. A touch high, but then again, I'm not at my best with a healing foot.

Slowly, carefully, I shift to get a better look at the boughs of the trees that surround me, filtering the sunlight to a thick amber color, more liquid than the air outside of the forest. Heavy with heat and insects. It's a profound effort not to react as tiny winged creatures land on my bare arms, neck, face, but if they haven't seen me, I don't want to give them a quick movement to reveal my presence…

I'm looking for shapes that don't belong. A massive nest - maybe belonging to a bird or a squirrel - too far up in one of those tall trees with no easy climbing branches. Should stick to the big dark ones with the thick boughs.

Then, combing over the low hanging branches, hopefully too far away to see me properly - distinctly, a head of glossy, dark hair. Frozen almost as I am, but now that I can see the head, I can get a sense of where the rest of her is - and it is a her, it's the District 6 girl, which means…

I move experimentally, cautious of anything that might make a noise - she doesn't flinch or look my way. Hasn't seen me. Or maybe did, but has lost me. Simply heard my footsteps? I shouldn't have been so clumsy.

Now that I can distinguish her from the trees, I can see other abnormalities - a pack balanced on a branch, another - not District 7, but the District 11 boy, who I recognize, of course, from having killed his partner.

I wonder, would seeing me be enough to bring him down from that tree in search of some kind of revenge, or would he find a way to run away, like he did when his friend gave her life for him?

I have no sympathy for cowardice.

Perhaps he's found some new women to give their lives for him. It wouldn't surprise me.

I'm too far away to hear more than whispers and the sounds of hands scrabbling on bark, but I finally catch sight of the girl from District 7, too - they're all together, though she's much further up in the tree.

This is… interesting. As long as I can get out of here quickly and quietly, I'll have news for Jewel and perhaps the others, if things are ever truly smoothed over after this morning's slight. Three district tributes, and their location, and a new alliance - that's significant.

Hopefully Sequin and Corsage recognize this too - hopefully Jewel will get something for her arm, us having managed such a find.

Taking care not to so much as breathe too loudly, I turn, knife still sheathed, to begin to edge away from where I've found the trio of district allies.

It's only then that I find myself face to face with a massive black armoured lizard with a mouthful of daggerlike teeth. Not ten feet away from me. About twice as long as I am tall. Its gaping jaws open in what could be a smile and what, more likely, means a warning.

Oh, _fuck_.

x

 _Next up: Bridget! And, in a roundabout way, Angel and Renata ~_


	45. Day 2: Meeting in the Swamp Forest

Day 2: Meeting in the Swamp Forest

x

It's just a lot  
It's just a lot  
It's just a lot

I want to hold on to the innocence I got

'It's Just a Lot,' Kristine Flaherty

x

Bridget Harding, District 3

If I've got anything to be thankful for, it's Dion - and the fact that he's taken so easily to recovery from his wounds, from these traumatic few days… picked up normalcy like a denim jacket and shrugged it effortlessly over his shoulders.

I'm not so good at going along to get along. Never have been, clearly - and without him I'd have no doubt I'd have fallen entirely from the Capitol viewers' graces by now, as a lot of… thoughts, disruptive to my worldview, but increasingly solid and tangible… have been getting in the way of my act. Not quite an act, the rebel with a cause, but a different cause, now. So much changes when the people you trust hang you on the rope you handed them.

There are so many good words for how I feel, what I'm thinking. And I can say none of them. I may die with them still lodged in my throat.

And that's why I need Dion right now. More than he knows, I think. With him, I can skate over the surface of my thoughts. And it's not totally ignoring them, either - I get the profound sense that he feels more or less the same. We have a camaraderie beyond our district bond.

"Last of the fish-shaped crackers for a late breakfast?" he's offering now, breaking me out of my pensive mood.

I put my face back on.

"You're out of your mind," I say, "they don't even look like fish."

"It's real bad manners to refuse an offer of food, man, don't be dishonoring my dinner table."

"I just said you were wrong about the shape, I didn't say 'no'," I laugh, accepting a handful of crackers.

We don't have a lot of food - we're well-off on water, but food is going to be an issue very soon. Dion and I collected the dead snakes from outside the cave, on the off-chance they might have some meat on them - the carcasses currently lay in a pile near the sparsely concealed mouth of our little shelter.

"Also, _some_ dinner table you got here," I add, patting the dirt of the cave floor in front of me. "I'm really feelin' the 'respect' vibes, where's my fancy-folded napkin?"

"Oh, lay off," Dion says good-naturedly, gesturing at the general location where a table might be with a flick of his wrist. "Let me have my imaginary comforts. Xenita would never stand for a setup like this - I'm just trying to do what she'd do."

"She a fan of playing pretend?" I suggest, amused at his grandiosity.

"A gentleman doesn't discuss that kind of thing in public," he laughs - and the sound of his laugh fills the shallow cave where we're crouched, the ceiling of which is only about five feet high.

But Dion - well, Dion warms any space he walks into. Is capable of firmly occupying any room. I wonder how I managed to avoid meeting him, back at home, knowing that our proclivities for the political align, if not always in the same way…

He's my friend now. But I wish I'd had him as a friend back home. My thoughts keep drifting back there, when our conversation hits a lull. Aramid and Tyra in our late-night planning sessions, classes and the way building things would just _click_ sometimes, even Valence and her habit of stealing my favorite tops.

It goes without saying, but I'd trade at least one appendage - one of my legs, maybe, or my left hand - to just be home with them. Hell, for a few minutes to confer with my friends the way we used to, talking like there'd never be any consequences to our words… what are they talking about, now? Did my reaping change their minds like it… well, _challenged_ mine?

Dion seems to be preoccupied with one of the smaller snakes, digging at the head of it with his kitchen knife as though he's trying to figure out how to skin the thing, though he shudders every time he tries to put his bare hand on the scaly flesh.

"Be careful," I warn him. "Don't get yourself scratched by those fangs, we don't have any more antivenom."

"Shit, you're right," he says. "Nice, now I'm even more nervous about these stupid things. I never had a problem with snakes _before_."

"Wait, wait, no," I say suddenly, something falling into place all the sudden. "Let me see the one you're looking at."

Inspecting the limp snake - about four feet long, as thick around as my bicep - I focus on the wickedly sharp teeth. Pinching it from both sides of its head, I feel the way the skeleton underneath connects. Not so different from a skeleton of steel.

Quickly, I find the muscle connection far to the base of the skull that, as I apply pressure, opens the mouth and extends the fangs.

The snake may be dull-eyed and dead, but the needle-sharp teeth that populate its mouth are slick with something. As I push harder, I can see little bulges at the base of the fangs, in the still-pink flesh.

I dig the tip of my knife in, and the sharp point comes out dewed with a yellowish fluid.

"Hey, I think we may have just hit the jackpot," I announce. "There's venom left in the ones that didn't bite us. Must be a few of them, right?"

Dion shudders.

"I'm here for it, but I'm not happy about it. These things give me the creeps."

"One of them did come close to taking you out last night," I say, "but what better way to master an opponent than to make their weapons your weapons?"

"Save your pretty words for your protests, I said I was down for your idea," he replies, as little sourly, but the white glimmer of his smile is visible even in the dim cave.

Though the only source of light is what filters through the brush we've leaned against the entrance, there's enough to see what we're doing as we alternate between messing with the snakes and eating crackers.

My small knife takes the venom pretty well, but Dion's is coated with something that keeps it from sticking. A cooking knife, so we should have seen it coming.

"It's for the best," he insists. "I'm not a poisoner. Or a… is it poisoning if you stab 'em with it? I know it's poison if you bite it and you die and it's venomous if it bites you and you die. But what if I stab someone and they die. What does that make me?"

"Lucky," I say with a shrug. "Closer to getting home."

"We've been pretty damn lucky so far."

"I think we've made our luck," I suggest, stretching, suddenly feeling very claustrophobic on my hands and knees in the cave. "We could probably do a better job of camouflaging the entrance to this cave. Actually, it might be best to be out there if we're not sleeping - we're armed, and you'd be at a disadvantage if someone came at us in a space this small. Being roughly the size of one of those trees out there and all."

"It's like you're reading my mind. Let's drink some more water and head out for the morning. There hasn't been a cannon since last night - we may need to be _entertainment_ again."

He winces at the thought and rubs his duct-tape-bound leg gingerly.

"I'd rather be the actor on the stage at the dinner theater than the meat on the menu."

"You have a real way with words, you know that?"

Between the two of us, we empty another quart of water. Having pulled that one large bag filled with water bottles of varying sizes from the Cornucopia, it's difficult to imagine the scarcity that may be facing some of the other tributes at this point.

It's difficult to imagine scarcity at all, coming from a solid cinderblock home with heat in the winter and air conditioning in the summer, in a good part of town, with food on the table at regular intervals - it's so hard to wrap my head around the idea that all we have left to eat is a few sticks of dried beef and some snake carcasses that neither of us knows how to prepare.

I wonder how well my knife will work. I hope I won't ever have to use it on a person, god, I've been so _sheltered_ even in here, two days and I haven't seen a single person die…

But it's good to be out of the cave, to see the sun again, even if it's filtered through the trees. The darkness was getting to me a bit, not that I need to be spreading that information around.

There's something static about the hot, muggy air. As I stretch my shoulders, my legs, feel a few pops in my back, I can feel the heightened sense of anticipation just as surely as I can feel my muscles flex. Dion sounds even more relieved, as a literal tower of a person, he was bent double in the cave. Relative safety - the appearance of it - at the cost of comfort.

"I didn't go too far looking for brush last night," I say, restructuring the crude pile of vegetation I used to block the cave's entrance in the dark. "We can do better than this."

It's like my heart is in my chest as I go through the motions of speech and movement - I'm on high alert, but not sure what I'm on high alert for.

Like the moment in the Justice Building when the last of my visitors left and the door closed, leaving me alone for a split second before the Peacekeepers returned. A surprising number of goodbyes, from the expected - my mom, stepdad, little Valence, crying for the first time since she didn't get the part of an angel in our church's holiday performance. Then friends, Tyra and Aramid, of course, but unexpected ones too. Connie and her boyfriend Breaker, bringing with them people I barely recognized, could hardly put names to, all of them believing they knew me when I couldn't pick their faces out of a crowd.

Then the moment of calm, when I wondered if I should run. Seriously wondered. Considered it. Almost ready to die _now_ , not tomorrow, _now_ , damn it, you fucking _cowards_ kill me _now_ if you want me dead so bad!

And then the Peacekeepers entered, and all was peaceful once more.

It works, I guess, because most of us don't want to die. And we have just enough of a choice to say 'maybe I won't die like this'. Because otherwise, oh - I'd be lying if I hadn't started thinking of suicide, how to do it artfully, how to make it mean something.

But what would it mean? To anyone but me? A disappointment, burnt out before she could properly shine. A stupid, scared little girl, in over her head, bit off more than she could chew.

That must be why they let so many people visit me. So I could see who I'd be letting down if I didn't just… play along. Because that's what I'm doing, that's all I can think to do, is play along.

Mayor Rhodes is a sick bastard and if I ever see him again I'll put a knife in him.

I wonder if that's how Dion thinks, why he considered my past approach naive. He hasn't expressed any qualms about doing what must be done to stay alive. No well-dressed Sunday school matron taught him the evils of violence as a means to solve our problems. He seems to have turned out better for it. I spent the bulk of training trying to get there with him, get to where he is, and of course I've fallen short, but I've managed an education for myself. I scored high enough. And I'm not as blind as I used to be.

Too little, too late.

"How's this dried grass stuff?" Dion suggests, holding up a tuft of long, yellowed stems opening into tiny, fluffy extensions of themselves.

"Awesome," I say. "Bring as many as you can over to the mouth of the cave."

For my part, I'm scouting for good sturdy fallen branches, which is a surprisingly tall order in a … literal forest. My best bet would probably breaking some off myself, but at barely five and half feet tall, I'm perilously ill-equipped to be reaching anything that's the right size for the job. Maybe I should give climbing a go. It couldn't be harder than gymnastics.

"Hey, Dion, can you reach that?" I call, hoping the extension of a branch from a tree that looks kind of like a cedar, maybe, will do the job.

The nervousness rises in my chest again, suddenly, and I find myself feeling uncomfortably _watched_. Which should just be a product of my environment, I guess, but feels like _more_.

My intuition isn't very strong, though, and I don't put much stock in it.

Dion returns to the almost-clearing - as much of a clearing as there can be outside of the space where we've got our cave set up - with empty hands, whistling some tune that doesn't sound exactly cheery but more or less fits the mood.

"I'm glad that was you," I say. "It feels like the trees have eyes right now."

"Got the same feeling. Can you whistle?"

"No, and I can't reach that branch, either."

He obligingly lopes over and stretches up - the full height of him doesn't seem quite real, but easily enough, he takes hold of the branch I indicated and rips it from the joint where it's fastened to the trunk.

"This one, right?"

"Yeah, it's perfect."

"Do you sing, then?" he asks. "It's always so weird to me, people who don't have any way to make music."

"Guess I'm weird, then. It's not a way I connect with the world so much."

"Someone's always singing, in my house. I figured the weird feeling was just from how quiet it is, out here. There was always some kind of noise in the Capitol - and it's never quiet with Xenita, I could listen to her talk forever. But out here… the silence could really get to a guy."

"That's what allies are for," I tell him, taking the branch to drag it back to the mouth of our cave. "We probably have enough to get started on a new covering for the mouth."

"You go on ahead, I'll get some more of this grass."

Whatever sort of camouflage we end up with, it'll work better at night - during the day, I think we just have to hope no one stumbles into us, though with the Gamemakers calling the shots that seems like a 'when' scenario rather than an 'if'. I feel better about that, with my knifeblade coated liberally in venom, though I don't have a clue how well it'll work in practice.

After all those drills - I worked so hard - I still don't know if I'll be able to hold it together against a real live person. I don't want to know, but also I do. I don't want to be a killer, but I don't want to die.

For the moment, I just want to get this brush covering together so we can sleep a little easier. That's the first step, anyway. To not dying.

I use the branch Dion helped me get as sort of a base - it's kind of hand-shaped, so it's easy to twine smaller branches and bits of the long grass Dion has collected through the fingerlike appendages. I'm actually kind of proud of my work - I'm pretty good at building things, and while these aren't the sorts of materials I ever saw myself working with, I always figured I'd do something like this. Just maybe with circuit boards or wiring. Wish that knowledge was useful here.

But there was no wire in the Cornucopia - there isn't usually. Maybe that'd make it too easy for us District 3 tributes. What would our trainees even look like? Would they be half-electricians half-monsters? God, I have so many bigger problems, but thinking about it still gets me so heated.

It all seems so petty now. But it's the cause I've been branded with, for better or for worse.

Maybe halfway done - the skeleton completed, but some spaces still patchy and too bare to be convincing, even in the dark - I stand to examine my work, to consider which pieces come next and how I'll work them into what has already taken shape.

Registering Dion's entrance to the clearing, I pause in thought.

"Hey man, how much more of that long grass did you get? I think we could use some…"

And then I register that he's not whistling, and whip around, my knife already half out.

It's not Dion, because of course it's not.

I'm face to face - well, with a good ten paces between us - with the girl from District 4. The one who interviewed so awkwardly. I felt sympathy, knowing how difficult it is to play a character when you're the furthest thing possible from an actor.

Then again, there was nothing awkward about her training score or the way she eviscerated dummies with a short spear in training. And she's got a spear on her now, not an interview gown.

Her dark eyes, though, are full of… I don't want to call it 'terror', because that's what I'm supposed to be feeling right now, not her.

Time feels like it's standing still. She's not advancing on me, moving even less than I have, as I've at least managed to draw my short-bladed knife. I know she sees me. She knows I see her. And yet - nothing. What's she waiting for?

Her eyes aren't quite meeting mine. She's looking at something else - it's not me that has her rapt attention.

I whirl around and find myself staring down her district partner. There's no fear in his eyes, but the whites seem a little too wide for my liking. Something's up with this one.

Where the hell is Dion? Is he hurt? Did they do something to him? No, there hasn't been a cannon. Where could he -

"Hey now, what am I walking into?" he says, materializing in the clearing with much more grace than you'd expect of a man his size.

I don't know where to point my knife. I settle on the boy from District 4, whose mannerisms alarm me much more than his partner's. She got the higher score. But she's also not smiling. He is. No teeth.

"Any chance this is a social call?" Dion continues, and it's hard to miss the edge behind his deep voice.

I'm surprised they haven't made their move yet - they could have, I don't know, rushed me? Just tried to finish me off before he got back? Jumped in, got between us somehow? They must know we'll be harder to take out back-to-back. And we are, now, practically back-to-back.

"No such luck," the girl says, and her voice has a sharply accented lilt to it, different from her interview.

Our luck has run dry, then. So quickly. I eye the District 4 boy, trying not to betray the fear, like bile, rising in my throat. He's bigger than me. He's still smiling. He's _into_ this.

What do they do, to make them like this, in training? How do they teach them to smile as they flirt with death - with taking life? At least the girl has the sense of decency not to smile - to hide how much she must be enjoying this moment.

I feel Dion's back against mine. This is a good starting point. Makes me look bigger, being paired off with such a giant of a man. Not such an easy target. I hope I'm not an easy target. But he's smiling like I am. Like he's glad I chose to point my knife at him.

He doesn't know what's on it, of course. He wouldn't.

If I have to kill someone, I think it would be him - not taking this seriously, smiling, how does someone _smile_ , that takes a fucking… some kind of _sociopath_.

I take a deep breath. Feel Dion steeling himself, know that no matter how he talks, he won't make the first move, doesn't have that in him. I wonder if he's remembering the girl's interview. How uncomfortable she was. How human she seemed. What do I remember of this boy, at whom I point my knife? Only bluster, bravado.

My face is heating up. If I _have_ to kill someone…

The girl hesitates. Her partner, suddenly, lunges.

I don't wait for him to skewer me with the sword he wields. I throw my weight away from Dion, not quite dodging his advance, but redirecting him, making his momentum useless. He turns, faster than I would have expected. The trainees are fast. I should have factored that into my expectations.

Unwilling to wait for him to engage with me, I flit away again, keeping an eye on him and on his partner, who seems reluctant to strike directly at Dion. I don't get the sense she poses a danger to me, but they've begun to slowly circle each other, like a pair of big cats in a zoo. Not play fighting - this is real.

As for me, my mood continues to be… evading.

I have this great knife, but the muscle memory of my drills seems useless when faced with a real live armed human being. How do I even get close enough? I've never fought a person, only a glorified mannequin, and I was good at that, don't get me wrong, but I'm panicking, the blood rushing too quickly through my body to think critically about anything. Just move move move move _move_.

The clearing, I finally realize, is not to my advantage. I'm smaller than he is. How did I not realize that earlier? Dion may be bound to this treeless space, but I'm not.

My back to the treeline, I make eye contact with the boy from District 4 - long enough to see the sheen of sweat on his face, to register the already-ragged character of his breaths - and I slip into the relative safety of the thick vegetation.

Can I turn and run? Not without abandoning Dion. I can't do that, not fully. But I _can_ back myself up, get into the sort of place where he can't swing that big sword so well. I nearly stumble on the roots of a big oak tree, get my back up against it.

Not quite as fast as in the clearing, but he's on me before I have much chance to breathe. But I have enough of a chance. I've collected myself. I'm not shaking at all, hardly. I hold my knife and recall my drills.

It's like I predicted - he can't wind up his sword the way he wants to in these trees. But he can raise it over his shoulder and bring it down, splintering the bark where my shoulder was a second before.

I roll away again, but this time, it doesn't feel like running. I _dodged_ that. He jerks back, withdrawing his blade with a kind of manic energy, then makes another short hacking gesture.

First cut of my drill. I nip in with the strike - a feigned jab followed by a slash that starts high and ends with my elbow level with my hip, ready for a real stab to the viscera. But he, of course, can dodge too. Better, faster than I can. The steel of his sword meets my slash. I draw back rather than trying to finish the drill, get myself between two trees, knowing this will limit the directions from which he can hack at me.

In another millisecond of calm, I get another itching feeling in the base of my brain - a realization I can't quite put evidence to.

He's erratic. Moreso than a trainee should be. I wonder if it will save my life, realizing this.

I draw further into the trees, but try to direct myself so that I'm not too far from Dion. If he calls for help, I'll… figure out a way to help. Between the two of us, we could take out either of these two threats. But on our own, I'm as worried for him as I am for myself.

Dion learned to fight from his father, who he elusively described as 'in the army', which means, in District 3, that he was a rebel, back in the day. The kind of person either of my parents would cross the street to avoid. I hope to god that the score Dion obtained in his session was well-given, that what he knows will be enough to carry him through this.

I keep him in my thoughts for a second, then redouble my attention to the boy with a sword bearing down on me.

He must feel ridiculous, pursuing me like this - I wonder who he's killed before, if they ran or tried to face him. He doesn't seem as inclined to talk as Dion or his partner - I can hear, at intervals, their voices through the trees.

That, too, strikes me as odd - because I remember, during training, his was the voice we heard most often from the trainee table. I let myself hate them in a general sort of way. It felt good, to have an enemy I was allowed to name. Staved off some of the helplessness.

I've distracted myself, trying to discern what Dion and the girl from District 4 are saying. My pursuer takes advantage of that, erratic as he is. I can't quite avoid his next strike, though the overhand slash meant to slice me open from neck to gut only tears through my shirt and ignites a cold, stinging pain in my chest. I wince.

The smile is back. Does he realize he's smiling?

In his pause, I catch him, as unaware as he caught me. Dart forwards and start the drill afresh - slash down, catching the collar of his shirt but not his flesh. He reacts, catching me with a punch to the eye, a left-handed jab with his free hand, more in surprise than with any kind of direction. Can't stop me, this time, once I've started. He'll have to kill me. If he smiles while he does it - let him. I'll get him with my poisoned blade and he'll die too.

Instead of wincing back, even though my head is spinning, I propel myself forward and let my momentum and the muscle memories of the drills drive the blade between his ribs.

He stumbles, and I stumble with him. I feel the powerful muscles in his arm clench as he drives the pommel of his sword into my back, forcing the wind out of my lungs. My knife is still in his chest. With any luck, the venom will work dry. With any luck, any luck at all, this is the beginning of the end for him.

Together, we hit the ground, and I try to roll away - he reaches to grab me by hair I don't have. Advantages to being without my braids. Now, it's a race to scramble to our feet.

I win the race, and bolt for the clearing, only slightly woozy from the blow to my head.

Get to Dion. Gotta get to Dion.

The boy is on his feet too, coming after me, but he, too, is moving slowly.

I practically fall into the clearing, off-balance and head ringing, but I see Dion, standing alone, looking perplexed.

"She just… left," he says, then sees my state and reverts to a fighting stance unlike that any instructor showed us.

Behind me, the boy trips, sprawling into our field of vision. I've found my feet - I'm no longer in danger of falling. But he struggles to stand. His light brown shirt is coated in his blood. I, too, am bleeding. A lot.

The expression of mild confusion on Dion's face doesn't waver, until he sees my bloody knife.

"Oh," he says. "Hate to break it to you man, but you're basically dead."

The blood that fueled my sprint to the safety of the clearing and Dion's side is returning to my brain - or spilling down my front, or a little of both. And I realize that the boy isn't spasming on the ground because he's tripped badly, he's down because of what I stabbed him with.

"Not a pretty way to go either," Dion says, helpfully.

"Renata," the boy gurgles.

I'm frozen again, the way I was when I first saw him and his partner. But not in fear of them. In… I don't know, in… something… watching him choke.

"She's gone, buddy," Dion tells him, kneeling to get a better look. "Hey, she's okay, she's safe, don't worry about her. She got away."

He's not smiling anymore, the boy on the ground. His expression is… wounded, and not just by my knife. He's convulsing, his sword abandoned on the ground beside him. Mouth… trying to form words.

"...th' bitch."

"Hey now," Dion says, a warning in his tone. "That's no way to talk about a woman."

Now, his teeth red with his own blood, the boy smiles again. Looking me dead in the eyes. He won't stop _smiling_. Can't even treat his own death as though it matters to him.

And I just can't move, because I did that to him. I did that to him. _I_ did that.

"C'mon, won't be too long now," Dion sighs, noting my horror and the dying boy's smile. "Angel, right? Got anything else you want to say, Angel? Loose ends to tie up."

Finally, the smile slackens.

"No… nothing left."

"Good for you, man. Travel light. Close your eyes, okay? It'll be done soon."

"You…" he says, still looking at me, eyes clouding with something. "Keep running. If it catches up… you … like me…"

For several long moments, his body seems to have gone limp, but his eyes still move, briefly to Dion, then back to me. Where they rest. Dark brown, almost black. I wish I could read something in them, but all I feel is the intensity of their focus.

His cannon sounds overhead.

A sob builds in my throat, and I lift my hand to try to stifle it, but the noise rips from between my lips, harsh and painful and hopeless.

"Hey, hey, Bridget, it's okay," Dion says, at my side in an instant. "We'll get you taped back together, okay? You're fine. You're safe now. It's going to be okay."

All I can do is cry into his shirt.

Dion gives very good hugs. Even though my chest itches and burns with wet heat, I don't want to pull away and face the world outside of the hug.

"Remember what you told me," he says. "He dies, that's luck. That's one step closer to home."

"What did you do to his partner?" I ask, finally lifting up my head.

"Some predators don't go for live prey," he tells me with a smile.

"So she actually just…"

"Left."

"Walked out on her partner?"

"I mean," he says musingly, holding me at arm's length to get a look at the damage the District 4 boy dealt me. "To save your life, wouldn't you?"

I give him a hard look.

"No, Dion. I tried to come back for you. I thought she was going to hurt you."

"Hm. Then maybe… _maybe_ the District Four girl has someone she needs to get home to."

I think about the way Dion talks about Xenita. How her name is always an inch from his tongue. He loves her, really loves her, in a way I can only abstractly imagine feeling for myself about some other person.

Of _course_ , I'll never mean more to him than she does.

"Can you help me clean this?" I say, gesturing to my wound, breathing out in a single hard huff and wiping away my tears.

Everything about my upbringing tells me that the District 4 boy was right in his final words. That, if given enough time, I'd be like him. Dead, maybe. Or just dead to all of this. The kind of person who smiles as they anticipate the release of a gout of blood. Whose ally leaves them to die when given half a chance. Whose passing is only mourned by the people who killed them. Violence being, of course, an insidious and disfiguring evil.

I don't feel disfigured, though - parts of me feel hollow, but parts of me burn with anger. At him, because it's easy. I recognize that tendency in myself - everyone has it, the tendency to hate whoever is most straightforward to hate. The boy with the sword.

But I'm angrier, I realize, at the people who handed him the blade, carved the sickening smile on his face. The system isn't the easy enemy I thought it was. It's unimaginably complex, but it needs to be fought just as surely as any evil man or murderous boy.

Stripping a machine down to its parts is always a power trip married with the dissolution of the conception of an object as complete - the components are always somehow less impressive than the whole.

I wonder how I'll fit that slogan on a protest sign.

"Whatcha thinking?" Dion asks, rinsing off my wound with fresh water before gently stretching out silver-grey tape and fastening my skin back together.

"Just about what to do next," I say.

"I was thinking we could finish the covering to the entrance of the cave and see if we could get out any more venom from the snakes. It worked well."

"Sure," I reply absentmindedly.

The gears in my mind are turning in other ways, though, no longer confined by this arena or the bubble of District 3.

They - whoever they are, Mayor Rhodes, the President, the Gamemakers - have no idea how dangerous they've made me. I have blood on my hands now.

I try to wipe my drying hands on my pants, but it only smears and becomes even messier.

"You sure you're doin' alright?" Dion presses, genuine concern coloring his voice.

"I will be," I say, and I mean it.

x

 _Next up... Cora!_

 _Also, let the record show, I'm narrowing down to a victor at the moment, because where I go with the Capitol b-plot depends a lot on who I see winning. If there's anyone you particularly like - or don't like - these next few chapters will be a great time to let me know._


	46. Day 2: Midday in the Shallows

Day 2: Midday in the Shallows

x

Give me the pluck to sing  
to a disaster; bring  
holy water to a fire;  
climb the church's insubstantial spire.

Now's the time for heroic madness.  
The town burns because  
There was too much was,  
and too little is,  
And too little us.

'Fire', Dean Granitsas

x

Cora Davis, District 2

"This is useless, and you know it," I observe, walking by Marcus' side as we navigate through the tall, sparse pines of the sandy forest. "There's no one here but us. Based on our map, and everything we've heard. Jewel and Manari and their pig friends drove District Ten and District Eight out. The District Nine girl is dead. Nobody's in this part of the arena but us and the trees."

"Maybe Angel did us a favor, then," Marcus says, drawing to a halt and raising an eyebrow at me suggestively.

I _know_ I'm blushing, I'm not as good of an actor as he is.

"Not _here_ ," I say, shooting for 'coy' with my tone, but honestly, I'd be over the moon if I landed on anything but 'nervous'.

He laughs softly. So reassuring. I can almost pretend he's not walking me through this like a nurse wheels a gurney through the halls of a hospital. Like this is natural and normal. He's so _good_ at this. I'm just useless at this kind of facade, but playing off him, I can make it work.

"Regardless," he says, setting our pace once more through the trees, "I'd rather look at you than at him."

"Ha, well, same," I say.

He must know this is about the best I can do, because he doesn't push. Marcus never pushes.

What are we supposed to do, walking around in the part of the arena with no action? Wait for them to throw some mutts at us to liven things up? Well, they haven't yet, so that must mean Angel and Renata are keeping it interesting in the actual fun part where they might meet other tributes and like, do their fucking job, unlike me, stuck in this stupid sandy forest being useless.

"You okay?" Marcus asks, like he's always asking.

Like he can tell what I'm thinking. I guess I'm not so good at controlling my face. Still. I don't know if I like it or it freaks me out. I like being understood - like, I like the idea of it. Same thing with being cared for. Sounds cool, in theory, but in practice, I am… just as uncomfortable with care and attention as I am with the lack of it. It's not his fault, just me being crazy like always.

"Yeah," I say. "Just antsy. You know how it is."

"I do," he says, smiling.

"What was up with you and Angel?" I ask casually, as we continue through the slash pines. "Seemed tense. I was trying to make it less tense. I hope I didn't make it worse."

"You're perfect, don't worry," he says reassuringly. "But he's not my _favorite_ person, exactly, you're right."

"Guy stuff?" I ask.

"Something like that."

He only uses this voice when he's talking to me, I've started to notice. Claudia has a special voice for me too. I wonder if he picked it up from her.

"The trees are getting thicker," I say. "We've been at this for hours. Want to head towards where the sun was rising? The beach, which it was back at the Cornucopia, if it's still… beach, this far in this direction?"

"You have a fascinating way of understanding the world," he tells me. "Let's go to the beach."

I smile. He's humoring me, but I don't especially mind. Claudia knew that I understand more than I generally let on. I think he knows that too, and recognizes it, and, as an act of respect, allows me to suspend my disbelief and pretend that he cares for me. His calculated indulgences of my eccentricity are as much an act as everything Marcus does. A talented swordsman and a talented actor. He's gotten too close for me not to see the bones underneath his face. I see the bones.

Maybe I'm overthinking it. But I've always been good at seeing the bones.

And for now, I'm present in my body and my mind, enough to accept the action while acknowledging the motivation. In my worse moments, I have not been so good at that. Claudia knows, she's seen me at my worst.

Marcus doesn't know how bad I can get, and I don't intend to try to tell him. He can read my face like a book, but he must not understand how deep it goes - which parts are an act, and which are etched in my bones. For him to understand, _I'd_ have to understand, and I've long given up hope of understanding my own brain.

I want to go to the beach. That's what I want. I want to go to the beach with Marcus, who I like and who likes me. Maybe we'll get to do something fun, like… a mutt, or a surprise tribute who's been skirting the soft boundary of the grey sea…

"Do you like the beach?" he asks, noting, apparently, the enthusiasm of… my gait? My face? I can never tell how he knows.

"I've only seen it on tv," I say, honestly. "The Capitol kind, with the blue water and the white sand. Where they go and swim and sun themselves when they're tired from ruling the whole world."

I think they'll like that little aside. Hopefully they'll read it as sincere. I think I feel that sincerely?

"Yeah, I've never been either," he says. "This isn't exactly some Capitol resort, but I think we can make do."

The sand of the pine forest is loose - it tugs at my sneakers just as surely as the mud would, slips around them, dragging my footsteps back, making me ungainly.

"It's beautiful, here, though, in a funny way," I say. "Like the granite quarries. You've been to a granite quarry, right?"

"Class trip, when I was… oh, must have been five?'

Everyone goes to the granite quarries in grade school - they're some of the most active, and thus, the safest. My mom used to be a laborer there, worked her way up to a supervisor, but somehow managed to keep herself out of the house even more despite the shorter hours.

I think I worried them. My parents. I wasn't a terrible child or anything, but I was always sickly and never managed to make friends the same way other kids did. Weirdly observant, Claudia says, in ways that make some people uncomfortable. But not in a bad way. She says that. It's _not_ bad.

Marcus feels left out of the 'district pride' thing Claudia is always on about, I know that. I know he thinks I can help him. He thinks he has to give me something so I'll give him something back, but he doesn't see that I'd do it freely, unconditionally, because _Claudia wants me to_ , and I'd do anything for her. This is nothing.

I want to tell him that, but I can't figure out how.

So I help as best I can. With the flirting thing - which I'm terrible at - and the district thing.

"The grey-black graduations of the rock - it's beautiful. The ocean is like that. I want to look at it more. It's like… when the rock is so rich in amphibole, it's so black it's hardly granite anymore. Crests of quartz and feldspar."

"I wish I'd stayed in school longer. It's kind of sad, to think I walked past those same quarries and couldn't put name to the stone the way you can."

"Should've taken me walking with you," I say. "I could have taught you more than you'd ever want to know."

I read a few pamphlets on the flashier parts of geology, at Claudia's behest. Absent that teaching, I couldn't tell granite from gabbro. But no one needs to know that.

"Your parents taught you?" he asks, a little probingly.

Before I can stop myself, I laugh harshly.

"I barely know my parents," I say.

He looks at me, sideways so I can't quite see the expression in his eyes. A little longer than he needs to. I wonder if I've said the wrong thing, and he's trying to warn me.

"But it's for the best," I add, making a sincere effort not to sound like I'm hastily correcting my own excessive honesty. "I was raised by the district, and I can give myself fully in its service."

"I know what you mean," he says. "Could you even imagine… anywhere else?"

I laugh again, this time to suppress the impulse to agree - my god, I'd be dead ten times over! No, I have a handle on this.

"Yeah, just _imagine_ ," I say. "Look at _me_ , I'm Jewel, and I'm _better than you_ because I never fought my own partner."

"Soft touch," he says dismissively, shaking his head. "That's just the way with One."

I take the marvelous little tube of ointment from where I have it hidden between my breasts, gesturing with it a little theatrically.

"I wouldn't call them especially attentive, either."

"Yeah, well, their own mentors can take care of them if it's so important," Marcus laughs. "Besides, you're the reason Manari'll be able to walk off a broken foot like that. A good healer doesn't come cheap, they should know that."

"Are we coming off as villainous?" I ask him, a little playfully, a little seriously.

We're not supposed to be villains. We're supposed to be ambiguous for now. I hope I haven't pushed it too far. Villains can win - exhibit A, Corsage from District 1 - but not if they've gone the whole way off the deep end.

Someone ambiguous - a little likable, a little conflicted - can lose it and still be redeemable. That's the knife's edge I'm walking. Because I just don't know if… or rather, when… I'll lose it. Claudia knows how to push me off the edge. I'm sure the Gamemakers do too. I know that the edge is there, waiting for me. It's who I am and who they think I am when I get there that I can control.

"Villainous in the best possible way," he tells me - lifting me, and my heavy pack, almost effortlessly, spinning me like we're dancing.

"You're lucky I don't break your nose," I say, laughing. "Warn a girl!"

"Would you really?"

"I have before," I tell him with a smile. "But you know I'd patch you up, just as sure."

Marcus won our first sparring match, and I won the second. But I haven't been bringing it up too explicitly. He must remember, of course, but I don't think it's a happy memory for him. He's not a man who likes to lose. Takes it personally.

"Well, next time I'll ask first," he says.

His face is beautiful now, of course, but I liked it just as well when the bones were cracking underneath my fracturing knuckles. I know his bones as well as I know my own. I've always… always been good at that.

Maybe he knows me better than I think he does. There's a kind of understanding that comes from laying beneath someone, waiting for them to kill you, knowing that they can and they will if given just the right nod.

Marcus killed a man without any kind of affirmative gesture from Claudia - stories of _that_ got whispered _years_ after the actual event of it - so I knew with complete certainty that he would kill me too, without a pause, without a doubt. And he must have known I would have done the same. But we didn't, and with that comes a level of respect, and a level of mutual… yeah, I guess 'understanding' is the only way to put it.

"I can smell the sea," I say, after a few more minutes of walking in relative silence, just listening to birdsong and… thinking.

There's been so much time to think in the arena. That's the worst part of it.

Have I been slipping? I'm suddenly gripped with the fear that I've been slipping and not realized it. Am I thinking differently? More? How would I know? Would Marcus know? He was close to knowing me, before - I didn't tell him everything, but he must have guessed more than a few surgeries made me who I am. Does he know? Does he think I'm crazy? Is he bringing me to the ocean to kill me?

No. I suggested this. Stupid, crazy - stop with this.

Luckily, somewhere in the distance, a cannon sounds, breaking me out of my tendency to wallow in the worst parts of my mind.

"Sounds like Four found someone," Marcus comments.

"Good," I say. "They're really earning their keep. What is it, four kills between the two of them?"

"Maybe five now. But we're not doing too badly ourselves."

He's glossing over our comparatively paltry counts, and I can't say I don't appreciate it.

"Hey, we're just about arrived - and it's beautiful," he says, as we near a break in the trees.

We can see it now. Full and immense and as grey and violent and merciless as I remember.

"Yeah," I say, my mind suddenly clear. "It's so beautiful."

"More like slate, I'd say, than granite," he comments. "And the peaks - splinters."

"Granite has an effervescence," I say. "More than slate."

"You're the expert," he laughs. "I defer to you in matters of rocks."

I'm not talking about stone, but my feelings about it, now. That's something very different than any kind of mineral expertise.

"Do you want to go in?" I ask.

"Admittedly, a tempting offer," he says, as if on cue, wiping the sheen of perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand. "But also, I do put some value on my life. And salt water can't be good for my sword."

"Yeah, but… it's so hot out," I say. "And there's interesting stuff in the ocean."

"What, you think they put some horror in there for us to find?"

"I know they did. Come on, we haven't had a good fight, can't we do this?"

"You're… serious."

"How bad could it be?"

"Very bad."

"They wouldn't kill us, Marcus, we're just getting _started_. We haven't done _anything_ yet. Don't you think we could do something great, together? Now that we're _together_ , instead of against each other."

I mean that, actually, though I must sound unbalanced. But what I am right now is certain - that I need a good fight to put me back to normal, and that Claudia would tell me if something was wrong here.

She could, too - tell me. Like every year, we have a code. Same as Marcus has with Aaron. Carefully determined in rooms back in the Center swept for any sort of bug, Gamemaker or otherwise. It has to change every year, with every volunteer - it's incredibly risky to have any code, since once it's there it can be exploited.

This way, it's not consistent between the Games. For Aaron, Claudia sent him loaves of bread, delineated for each specific command. It makes sense.

It's components to a pocket knife, for me. A code written in knife blades. File? Run. Can opener? Hold your ground. Serrated spay blade? Kill Marcus. Unserrated spay blade? Kill myself. And a simple corkscrew just means kill - indiscriminately.

I wonder what his commands are - I'm sure Aaron does it differently. But I barely dare to think about my own in any sort of linear way, that's how protective of the code I've been conditioned to be. As if my thinking too loud could let the Gamemakers in on how to subvert Claudia's voice, steal it for their own.

No file. Nothing significant enough to tell us to run away. She must know.

Marcus seems to be thinking something similar, glancing at the sky so casually I'd miss it if I weren't looking for it.

Then, a parachute floats down, and we both freeze as the oddly shaped package lands… squarely in Marcus' hands.

He gives me a look, then neatly tears open the paper to reveal a strangely shaped cleaver adorned with writing I don't recognize on the side of the blade - which is angled with unusual steepness. I can see him reading the foreign characters, his brows knitting together for a second, then relaxing abruptly.

"Looks like you made the right call," he says. "Guess what this is?"

"A knife?"

"C'mon, Cora, really? More than that… it's a _seafood_ knife."

A smile spreads across my face - unbidden, but welcome.

"You won't have to get your pretty sword wet after all," I say, delighted.

"Are you up for sushi?" he laughs.

"What's that?"

"Nevermind. I'm ready for a swim if you are."

"Packs off?" I ask.

"Well, yeah," he says. "There's no one around for miles. Keep our food dry."

"Clothes off?"

"I'll match your pace on that one," he tells me, back to laughing.

Aaron's gift seems to have put his concerns completely at rest. Claudia hasn't sent me anything yet, and I'm not, like, unhappy about that, but also there's a part of me that's eaten away with worry that Aaron and Marcus connect better than me and Claudia, and Claudia's realizing that and has decided I'm not worth the effort, no matter what she said, and I know that's insane but it's what I'm thinking! It's crazy. I'm not crazy.

Instead of thinking those thoughts, which are not good rational thoughts but bad nonsense thoughts, I remove my shirt and the odd loose pants with which we were outfitted, leaving me in tight black shorts and a compact athletic bra, which is uncomfortably smushy - these things never fit me right - but at least I'll have something dry to change into.

Marcus, for some reason, respectfully averts his eyes during the process - I have no idea what that means, but it's both reassuring and unsettling, like pretty much everything he does.

I realize abruptly that, for most members of the audience, this will be their first time seeing my scars. Including my brand-new thigh scar, courtesy of District 10's resident bastard. Should I be self-conscious about that?

While I look to Marcus for a cue, he's in the process of changing out of his own clothes, and I find myself averting my eyes, too. This should not be so awkward, I'm sure everyone thinks we've gone _much_ further than this. There's the anxiety again. What does Claudia think of me, of my playing along? Is she disappointed with me going off script? I'm not that far off script! I'm doing my best!

Before I can spiral too far, Marcus is shaking his hair back into place, looking like he walked out of a Capitol advertisement and into the afternoon sun. He glances at me, too quickly to be uncomfortable, and smiles.

"You look beautiful," he says. "Let's try not to add too many more scars to your collection."

My whole body may or may not be flushed, but I can put that down to the abrupt exposure to the sun. I can't let myself revel in it too much - it's too hot to really enjoy the sunshine - but I can feel the pieces of my brain knitting back together, making more sense, of _course_ Claudia isn't mad at me. Where did I get that idea from? Everything is fine.

I pick up my machete from the sand, and Marcus inspects his weird-shaped chef's knife.

"Ready?" I ask.

"Ready," he replies, and he carefully begins to walk into the surf, as though expecting me to follow him.

Of course, I do.

The water is exactly as cold and as much of a relief as I would have hoped, though it's not pleasant to feel my running shoes becoming completely saturated. These will take _forever_ to dry.

Quickly, I catch up with Marcus, wading alongside him.

"They'll have to stop us eventually," he says, unnervingly casual, like we're having a conversation about taking too many free samples in a grocery store or hogging the gymnastics mats in the Center.

For my part, I'm entirely focused on the water around us, already fearing the worst - schools of tiny, needle-sharp fish? I've seen those, in a jungle-type arena, when a tribute dared to enter the river - there was barely any of her for the hovercraft to pick up.

We're almost waist deep - well, my waist, a little less for Marcus - when I see the first shark.

It's not a small and innocuous shark, this is the real deal. The sort of thing that would be a bit of a problem if it was coming right at us. I nudge Marcus gently, but he's concentrating with laser focus on something to his other side - I follow his gaze to find another large shark, this one almost too big for the relatively shallow water, its massive fin sticking up over the cresting waves. It's got friends, and I realize, quickly, that the shark I first saw is not alone, either.

"They're keeping their distance," he says slowly. "Is it us they're scared of? Or…"

As if in answer to his unspoken statement, a head rears out of the water. It's covered in… not the kind of scales you'd see like in a picture book of a dragon, but grey armored plates, like a crab or a lobster. Fashioned into a kind of ungainly head, almost reptilian, but with two protruding eyestalks. Attached to a body that doesn't make sense, even half-submerged, as two disproportionately long claws support the bulk of the creature's weight and two larger, meatier claws with wickedly sharp edges emerge from the roiling water.

At full height about fifteen feet tall, at a guess. Clacking its giant claws angrily. Seemingly, the creature has several mouths, ringlike, up and down its body, each opening and closing menacingly with ringing noises of bone on bone.

"Back up," I whisper. "We want to be in as little water as we can manage."

After a few steps, it's clear that the ring of sharks around us is blocking our escape. Just as well.

"How do you feel about lobster, Marcus?"

"You know what?" he says, as the beast advances on us, armored claws moving impossibly fast for a creature of its size and bizarre proportions, "I'm actually not such a fan of shellfish."

"What's our play?"

"Cover me with that machete, let me see what I can do about the… mouths. Seem like a weak spot to you?"

"Seems like a good bet," I say. "Let's go."

As purposeful as if we'd been planning for a full morning, I slip in ahead of him and meet the first strike of the right claw with the blade of my machete. The force makes my double-handed grip ring, but I push back as best I can - the shallow cracks left by the impact on the grey shell not giving me spectacular confidence.

But there's no time to think as we push forward and the second claw swings in, harder - I block again, but the strike combined with the depth of the water in which I'm immersed nearly knocks me off balance.

The claws are unbelievably long - fast - coordinated! It takes all my energy to cover Marcus as we inch forward, trying to get him close enough to land a hit where it counts.

I parry another blow successfully, but get the angle wrong - I'm getting tired - and the glancing claw slices across my cheek, sinking briefly into my nose before I can duck away. Red, my blood, drips into the waves. There's too much going on. I'm not going to be able to keep this up.

"How long, Marcus?" I ask sharply, trying to shake blood out of my eye while simultaneously absorbing another punishing blow from the claws, my wrists and arms ringing like cymbals.

"Get me a bit closer," he says. "You're doing amazing - I just need to get under the reach of the claws."

Gratifyingly, the fissures in the armor seem to be spreading as I parry. I've never eaten lobster, but how hard can it be to crack this one? No weakness. Come on. I can do this.

Another claw swings at my head - am I imagining it, or is this thing being less careful with its blows, now? This time, I'm present enough to aim at the dent I left with my last swing, and as my machete connects with the claw I'm rewarded with a noise like a sheet of slate snapped in half.

We're no more than eight feet away now, closing in on it fast. I don't hit the next claw quite perfectly, but Marcus seems to be paying close attention, and I'm back to being ready like I was for the next assault, and this time I put every ounce of strength I have into it - enough to shatter my own wrists if this simply glances off a hard carapace.

But I gambled right, and my machete crushes through the fragmented shell, into greyish-white tissue - and from all its mouths, the creature seems to scream.

I try to wrench my blade free to maximum effect, the blood continuing to obfuscate my vision, but it's stuck deep in flesh - the other claw swings in and lacerates my ribcage, deep enough to hit bone but seemingly not to fracture it. The thing is confused - moving erratically, at least, unpredictable.

I can be unpredictable too. I stop trying to rip out my machete and instead drive my whole weight forward into the meat of the claw, at an angle that gives me just the right torsion to - _crack_.

The tip of the claw splinters. Six feet away, now. Marcus could probably make it to those mouths with one good opening. Now that I have my machete free - and one of the claws dangles half-useless - I can give that to him.

For a second, I notice that the water around me is red and I am, in fact, quite injured.

No time for that. Walk it off. Swing it off?

I catch the next claw by the tip of the machete, not quite the blade, but while the impact is still jarring I can see a clear pattern of fissures produced, and miraculously I have time to swing back and hit it again, this time with a force that is all my own - the beast seems to be backing up, but no, we're going through with this.

Suddenly, Marcus seems to disappear beneath the waves, and I am terrified for a second - truly, terrified - that a shark has grabbed him.

But then, as the mangled claw swings in, aimed right at my face, he reappears directly in front of the beast, maybe even so close as to be out of range for the claws - and he sinks his knife into one of the ringed mouths.

Or tries to, rather, because the blade bounces right off the hard shell of the decoy mouth, and suddenly, the torn-up claw aimed at me is clocking him to the back of the head.

"Marcus!" I try to move forward - his little knife is not the right weapon to protect him from this thing - but he hasn't given up, shakes off the blow, and digs his knife in between two of the plates on the creature's chest.

It seems a useless move, and he's about to be battered by another awkwardly-angled claw when he, instead, uses the blade as a handhold to drag himself almost completely out of the water, then, quick as lightning, sink the blade between two higher plates, taking a slash to one of his calves but continuing, undeterred.

As he finally takes the blows I've been absorbing, I slosh my way up to join him and start hacking away, wholesale, at the creature's body, thinking maybe I can distract it from smashing his head open while he focuses on… whatever he's doing.

For a second, I'm delighted that it seems to have worked - then I'm less delighted as the hard edge of the mangled claw catches me by the side of my neck with enough force to rip me open, though I stumble back in time to take more of a glancing blow.

"Marcus!" I shout again. "Take my knife!"

He's been hanging on, just a few feet below the creature's eyestalks, dodging the other claw as best he can while onehanded. If there's a way to end this, though, it's gonna have to be him.

As carefully as I can, making eye contact with him, I send my machete in a controlled lob upwards. Not very well.

He catches it awkwardly by the blade, but closes his hand around it anyway, sinking the metal into his fist with a noise of pain, and plunging the rest of the blade upwards into the intersection of the plates just below the eyestalks.

The creature screams again, spasming so hard that it sends him back into the water, a fall that could have real consequences if it were on land. The deep surf, however, holds me back as I try to get to him - to make sure he's not drowning, hasn't fallen on his own knife. I'm slow, and the dying crab monster is still unbelievably fast. More blood in my eyes - oh, right, I'm still bleeding.

The water is red by the time I reach him, after yanking my machete free from the creature's carcass. For the first time, though, I notice that the peaks of the waves have lowered, and the sea is relatively still. He's floating on his back, looks a little stunned and battered but not nearly as stabbed or dead as I'd feared.

"Hey there, beautiful," he says, expertly camouflaging the fact that he is entirely out of breath and likely in a good deal of pain.

"Can you stand?" I ask, running my fingers over his hair, checking his neck and then his torso for any injuries I'm missing.

"Depends, will you keep doing that?"

I laugh. "Marcus, your timing is unbelievably bad. I barely have a nose."

"It's not as wrecked as you think, missed the most important bits. You can breathe, right?" he asks, looking momentarily concerned - as if I'd somehow be withholding the information that I was dying.

"I'm breathing just fine," I say, patting him reassuringly on the cheek.

"Well, you were amazing."

"So were you!"

He shifts to a standing position, only a few noises betraying the extent of his injuries. The bad cut to his leg, the blows to his head and back… that's not easy to shake off.

"Don't you look at me like that," he says, feigning a scowl at my concern. "Most of the blood in the water is yours."

"Yeah, I should… do something about that," I say, laughing, feeling far more lightheaded than before.

I stumble in the waves - miraculously, he catches me before my head hits the water.

"You okay, Cora?" he asks.

"You _always_ … ask that," I complain, from my comfortable position. "I'm _always fine_."

"Are you fine with this, too?" he asks, drawing me up in his arms until my face is level with his and gently kissing me.

I hope it looks less awkward on camera, because while I'm trying my best it is _obvious_ , to me at least, that neither of us has so much as a clue what we're doing. Thank god, he didn't go for anything fancy, so it's just cold bloody lips on cold bloody lips.

My head is too light with blood loss to really be present.

But I'll concede it's nice to be held right about now.

To make sure I'm doing my part, I drape an arm around his neck and smile into the kiss, which blessedly ends it as he smiles back.

I lean up to his ear and whisper, too softly for anyone but him to hear, "I'm _so_ sorry about that."

He grins like I've said something risque rather than just apologized for having my first kiss on live tv, and carries me gently back to shore. The sharks part ways to allow us to pass.

If I weren't so committed to supporting him in whatever he's doing, I'd say something like 'I can walk, you know', but maybe I'm learning how to 'act' too, and maybe it is… nice. To be cared for.

Something I'd get sick of after a while, of course.

He sets me down on the sand by my discarded clothes and pack and sets about drying his hair and tousling it back to normal. I seriously don't understand how he does that - I look like a blonde rat died a tragic drowning death on top of my head, I'm certain, and I can feel fresh blood running down my face.

I take off the athletic bra, part of which is shredded to the point of uselessness anyway, and inspect the long and deep gash down my ribcage. My back won't be thanking me for the decision to discard it after the walk home, but we'll deal with that when we get to it.

Opening up my pack, I produce the first aid kit as well as the ointment I left at shore, and set about cleaning the wound.

Marcus looks up, half-flinches, and averts his eyes, stopping just short of shouting 'sorry', which almost makes me laugh - we are _so_ out of our depth with this game, it's unbelievable. He may be a better actor than I am, but we're on the same woeful square with regards to _actually knowing what we're doing_.

That said, as soon as I can, I get the gash on my side covered and tended to, and preserve what's left of my modesty with the dry shirt, then start dealing with my face, which is… not pretty, but at least my nose isn't hanging off, which was what I was afraid of. Some antiseptic, some of the special ointment, a bandage rolled around my head. Nothing too crazy.

Finally, Marcus joins me, shirt on but pants folded over his arm.

"Can you help me out with my leg?" he asks, looking entirely too embarrassed for someone who just picked me up and kissed me in a pool of our own blood. "And, uh, my hand is pretty torn up too, actually."

"Sure," I say, and at least this stuff is what I'm good at, what makes sense - cleaning up flesh and bandaging it back together is a specialty of mine.

"Y'know," I comment idly as I work on the deep cut in his palm, "you're supposed to hold a blade by the handle. That part isn't sharp."

"Oh, really? My mistake," he says lightly, and his smile is as genuine as it's been all day. "I learn something new every day."

He definitely heard what I whispered back in the water, and I think this moment is his way of saying it back.

"Well, go District Two," I laugh, muffled by the bandage swathed partially over my nose. "I'm declaring us both officially patched up."

"I can carry you back to camp if you want," he offers, warming back up to himself as he pulls his pants on. "You seemed to enjoy it."

"You _stop_ that," I say. "I carried that fight. I should be the one carrying _you_."

"Please," he says. "Who killed the thing? Was that… you, tossing your machete into thin air? I think someone _spectacularly_ talented had to catch it."

"Someone who would have been dead twice over with his little tiny knife if I hadn't been there to take those hits, hm?"

"Who're you calling tiny?"

"Oh my god, we sound like _Jewel and Manari_ , please, I'm _suffering_ , make it stop," I complain, and for a moment, everything seems normal and safe, like we're back in my room arguing about whether or not Aaron will yell at us for sneaking out and grabbing some of the expensive candies from our escort's decorative bowl.

I do feel safe with him - I can _feel safe_ with him, and that's… not nothing.

"Actually," Marcus is saying, in a terrible imitation of Manari's speech patterns, "You're being ridiculous, are you _literal children_? _Everyone_ knows the only way to beat a lobster mutt is by boiling it and calling a feast… literally _anybody_ would know that. You District Two barbarians are insufferable."

"You're not doing him right, too much talking, he likes to do less than ten words at a time," I say, though I can't disguise my laughter.

And I don't want to.

Woozily enveloped in the warm, bloody heat of my injuries, walking beside a partner I can almost trust, my brain _calm_ , humming beneath the afternoon sun... I feel as much myself as I've ever felt. As I've ever wanted to feel.

I could happily live in this moment forever.

The next one, though... the next one, I'll make it even better.

District 2 will be so proud of me. Claudia will be so proud of me. I'm doing _such_ a good job!

x

 _Ever notice how it's easier to write character that are further from yourself? I think that's why my self-inserts have always died early. Damask is due next._

 _As we progress through this story, I'm increasingly settling on a framework for a single sequel. It might not be SYOT after all - I'm starting to think I have enough of a gimmick that I'll be able to do another round of characters meaningfully on my own, but if there's interest, I'd entertain something like that._

 _This may be my only update this weekend, as I've just started a leftist schism on my college's memes group and I have to see it through._

 _Also, I've narrowed my plan down to three potential victors (I feel like Tyra Banks with only a few pictures left in my hands) so speak now on who you'd like to see win and why or forever hold your peace! I honestly think I know who it's going to be, but they're different than who I planned two years ago, so hit me with those opinions._


	47. Another Interruption

Another Interruption

x

Assassins laid in wait for Caesar; wine,  
Amid the boasts of victory, cut short  
The glory of the Macedonian;  
Deception cooled the fever Pompey had;  
Death was dealt to Phyrrus by a woman's  
Hand; Themistocles and Hannibal drank  
Deep of poison in their desolation.

'The Conquerors', Alexander Posey

x

President Margaret Lancaster, The Capitol

The woman who joined her in her office, this time, had a meeting. But her appearance was no less unexpected – stooped and bespectacled, in an untucked sky-blue button-down and soft, comfortable khaki pants, none of the Capitol affect in her face, dress, or mannerisms.

"Good evening, President," Cornelia Wiltshire said, closing the door gently behind her. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me."

"Strange times," Lancaster commented.

Another knock at the door – it was a Peacekeeper, in full uniform, holding a tea tray.

"You can set that down on the coffee table," the President told the young man, seating herself at one of the pair of twin couches in the center of her office.

She gestured at the other couch – the older woman gratefully took her seat, wincing as her knees bent.

As a member of parliament, Cornelia Wiltshire, unlike Lancaster, was elected solely by the Capitol – to represent their interests exclusively, in contrast to Lancaster's revision of the President's role, which balanced the needs of the Capitol and the districts fairly.

As fairly as she could manage.

"Strange times?" Wiltshire echoed, pouring herself a cup of tea and carefully adding a dash of milk. "I remember times exactly such as these. Shortly before the ascension of Coriolanus Snow. You were there too, then."

"There have been no assassinations in my parliament," Lancaster said, tone sharp.

"No _literal_ assassinations. Political? Character? You've had a tough week in the press."

She chuckled wryly. Of course, Cornelia was here to discuss Lorca. What else were people talking about these days? On all the networks – endlessly – his omnipresence in the public eye and on the public mind was as abrupt as it was absolute.

"And you're here to help me fend him off, I suppose?"

"You yourself _must_ know what has to be done. To stop him. You _know_ , President."

"If I knew, I wouldn't have entertained your request for a meeting," Lancaster replied stiffly.

Wiltshire was not exactly a pariah in the Capitol's government – it was understood that there was a place for wildly divergent types of people. She happened to be one of the odder types – while Lancaster's appearance was calculatedly bland, hers was uncalculatedly decrepit. She had aged along with the calendar, a rare thing for anyone in the Capitol, particularly a politician. At a respectable seventy-three years, she very much looked it, her face lined deeply and her hair thin, white, and scarcely, it seemed, _brushed_ – let alone dyed or styled.

While her vitality at her age would have been highly unusual in the districts, she might as well be a confused escapee from a retirement home in District 3.

"End the Games," Cornelia said simply.

"I beg your pardon?"

She was known for strong stances throughout her tenure that some called 'seditious' and others called, dismissively, 'district-loving'. It was a mantle she had adopted proudly, an outright champion of the districts. Though the citizens outside the Capitol scarcely knew who she was, her voting record stood for itself. Back in Lancaster's push for funding for reparations in Nine and Eleven, Wiltshire had made an impressive and capable ally.

Her power lay in the fact that she could provoke guilt in almost any Capitol conversant, with a few choice words.

Her weakness was that the citizens of the Capitol had a veritable anathema to anything that made them feel guilty.

"He calls you weak, at the mercy of the districts. Your opponents believe him. Your only move is the one he doesn't expect. For once in your life, be _genuine_. Do something because it's _right._ End the Games. Cement your status as a hero to the districts. End the platitudes. End the killing."

"I'd lose what little support I have from the Capitol mainstream, and you know that, Cornelia. It's too radical. They'd say I'd lost my mind. What exactly are you playing at?"

"I stood with you during reconstruction because you were doing what needed to be done. I didn't realize that was the _only_ reason you were doing it," Wiltshire said sharply.

"You can hardly criticize me for my _practicality_. You could never have accomplished what I accomplished. Talked about it, sure… but you don't deliver much more than a protest vote in parliament and an editorial on TGN about what _terrible, useless people_ we all are."

This seemed to be finally enough to upset Wiltshire – her lips pressed together in a thin line over her teacup as though she was about to deliver a stern lecture about eating sweets before bed.

Lancaster struggled to take the woman seriously, even back when they'd been forced by circumstance to work together. The youth of the Capitol half-adored, half-mocked her – it was always hard to tell which was which with that particular group of voters. Her soundbytes got attention and she was a frequent invite to universities.

But it all fell apart, for Wiltshire, when one considered that the last major policy she pushed through involved the construction of a hospital in District 9 well over a decade past – and for that, she had to rely on Lancaster and her bloc just to scrounge together the votes.

"Why take such an adversarial tone, anyway?" Lancaster pressed. "We've worked together in the past. We've done good things together. I've helped the districts, too – we're called by the same epithets in the papers."

"You're not the woman you used to be. Or perhaps I've just been misjudging you all along," Wiltshire told her, coldly.

"Are you going to accuse me of not caring for the districts? I've proven, time and time again –"

"Yes, you've proven that you care for the districts, in the abstract, but the people of them? They're human, President. In the districts – they're people. But the Capitol will never recognize them as humans as you persist in making a vaudeville act of their children's deaths. You can give them votes – convince them to use those votes to keep you in power. But the only way to make that support you've begun to lean so heavily on _count_ to anyone but your ego is to take _action_ and elevate them. Let them be humans too."

"I've never denied the districts humanity," Lancaster sputtered.

"With your _words_! Though who knows what you say behind closed doors. Your policy says all it needs to. Twenty-one deaths per year. Talk about it with as much gravity as you like. They mean about as much to you as rabbits in a hutch."

"So you've come here to insult and demean me. So did Lorca," she sighed.

Cornelia Wiltshire just sipped her tea, looking very much like someone's batty grandmother.

"Lorca's as much a liar as you are," Wiltshire said. "What I'm saying is the truth, and there must be a part of you that knows it. Something that's gotten lost since we worked on reconstruction together. You weren't always like this."

Lancaster closed her eyes, rubbed them with her hands, and took a deep and calming breath – then a sip of her own tea.

"You want me to end the Games. When? How?"

Wiltshire shrugged, setting her teacup down delicately.

"I didn't say it would be easy. You'll need some support on the legislative end, but not as much as you think. A precipitating event around which to focus the campaign – and it _will_ be a campaign. An undertaking, not something you can just sign into place. You'll need to convince the Capitol of your honesty, which won't be hard, once you start _being honest_."

"Absurd."

"There will be casualties, I'm not denying that. But you've always been good at doing the right thing when _politically convenient_. And finally, our interests align. Let me help you."

There was a pregnant pause as Lancaster wrestled with her rising frustration.

"Who keeps you in office, Cornelia?" she finally asked.

"Other veterans," Wiltshire explained with a smile. "I served, remember? Increasingly, the youth. That's the frontier for you – the young voters don't like you much, President. They're disillusioned with you. I can't blame them. Half of them go for Lorca and his slogans and bombast – and half of them go for me and my truth. You don't reach out to them at all."

"Fine, yes, I've made mistakes – I never really had to run for this position. I hate that now it seems I'll have to grovel and scrape for it. Campaigning is not… my strong suit."

"Clearly."

"Good lord, has everyone in this country forgotten my title? _Some_ respect."

"You lose support by acting as though your experience – and your title – means anything. Work with me on this initiative to end the Games. I would like to see the last Hunger Games, before I die. I've been waiting on this for a long time, President. I'm no longer willing to compromise with you. Compromise was your strength during reconstruction, but it has become a weakness. You can't play on both sides and hope to win that way. I'm willing to help you, but not if you don't help yourself."

"And end the Games? You'll hold my presidency hostage – hold this country hostage, dangle us before Lorca's jaws – over this one thing?"

"It's not an ultimatum. You know it needs to be done. If district votes are to count for anything in the hearts and minds of the Capitol…"

"To hell with hearts and minds!" Lancaster explained, slamming down her teacup as pent-up frustration finally bubbled over. "Do you understand the danger we're in, Cornelia? Do you see how fragile this all is? This peace? Lorca is ready to throw us all to the wolves for power – he'll burn the districts to the ground if he's not kept in check, and bring the Capitol down with them. But his supporters will be too busy dancing around the bonfires to notice – until a rebel puts a bullet in their brain! We will _die_ , Cornelia."

She was exhausted. Exhausted with these demands, when she just wanted things to be as they should be, to be fair. Just wanted everything to work as it was supposed to. For the rules to be followed.

"I…" Wiltshire began, but Lancaster raised her hand. Not done.

"I recognize that you see me as, at best, the lesser of two evils," Lancaster said slowly. "But the lesser of two evils is just that. Less evil. Can't you see that?"

"President, I hear your words. But you must understand what made this society fragile in the first place. You may not yourself be 'evil' – I don't know you well enough or recently enough to say. But you have proved that you will tolerate evil. Your support of the Games – your continued suppression of the districts, no matter your flowery excuses – has allowed a society that condones that most mundane of evils to flourish. That's where Lorca's power comes from. He's an evil man, but his power comes from the evil to which you have turned a blind eye."

Lancaster could only laugh, sadly, bitterly.

"Perhaps I have condoned evil. But in the name of practicality. In the name of getting things done – practical things. Things that have made their lives better."

"No less evil, President. Even you must understand the precarity of your position. All Lorca needs is one in, one opportunity to turn the districts against you. They must know, in the back of their minds, that no one who truly was their advocate would let their children die like dogs in a sick _game_. They know. And they'll turn against you if he gives them the opportunity. _When_ he does."

"Cornelia… I can't end the Games. You know I can't do that."

"Has Lorca formally declared his intentions to run against you, yet?" Wiltshire asked, seemingly ignoring her.

"No, but he doesn't need to. All the rallies. TGN and LCN are speculating – half their coverage has the 'Lorca' name stamped all over it. He's a spectacle."

"I _am_ giving you an ultimatum now. Start taking steps to end the Games, or you'll be facing _two_ opponents."

Lancaster gaped. "Cornelia, you wouldn't."

"The paperwork is completed, sitting on my desk. Just wanted to see if you could convince me not to. I could have been your staunchest ally. But you're as soulless as Lorca. You've just convinced yourself you're not."

Those words, coming from a grandmotherly figure with untamed white hair and a stoop to her gait, in her seventies by both appearance and reality… it almost shook her.

Until she took a breath, and thought of all she'd done – the roses on the tracks in District 11.

 _No one_ could say she was evil. Not Cornelia Wiltshire, and not anyone.

Lorca was evil. Not her.

"You'll split the vote," she said evenly. "You don't have a Twelve's chance …"

She stopped there, realizing she'd almost used an expression from back before the Rebellion. The sort of expression that Cornelia likely would not condone.

But it was true. Cornelia didn't have a District 12's chance in the Games.

Wiltshire smiled, sadly, almost.

"Neither did Katniss Everdeen, President. Remember her?"

"I remember that she died peacefully of her wounds following Snow's execution. In a Capitol hospital. Offered the best possible care. Like any other citizen."

"She offered them more, and they _loved_ her more than they could ever love you. Even in District Eleven, your _darling_."

"This meeting is over."

"As you wish, President. Don't say I didn't offer you a chance – to win, to do something right."

"I won't say _anything_ about you, besides the fact that this amounts to treason – you know you can't win. You know if you run against me too – he'll win. How can your conscience bear that?"

"Your conscience has survived a war and fifteen Hunger Games in your name. It's how _you_ sleep at night that I worry about, President."

"Goodbye, Cornelia."

Taking a final sip of her tea, the older woman stood – her joints cracked audibly, and she sighed.

"Thank you for the tea and for the conversation. I'll see you on the debate stage, I suppose. Then again, perhaps you'll reconsider your stance on the execution of public officials who disagree with you before then. Wouldn't put it past you."

Without another word – surprisingly quickly, for one so physically aged – Cornelia Wiltshire took her leave. For a long second, Lancaster was alone in her office, a stone-cold cup of tea pressed to her lips.

Just a second. Long enough to see the gallows flash before her eyes. Wiltshire must know what was coming for them if they lost. Though Lancaster would hang first, more likely than not with her tongue cut out before she could say 'I told you so'.

After all she'd been through for this position. Reverted to her maiden name during the purges. Missed her husband's funeral - that was how they got the widows. Lain low for weeks, then reemerged tentatively in favor of the standing rebel government. Expressed sincere condolences when a military coup, started in District 2, wiped out the rebels and restored power to her faction. No, she'd never won an election, but she'd _fought_ for this position. She'd _outsurvived_ every vicious, blustering besuited man who'd stood between her and power. She _adapted_ , damn it.

No matter how objectionable, she was gripped by the wrenching feeling that she was watching her hope to maintain the Presidency limp its way out of her office.

She had worked with Cornelia Wiltshire before.

That dreadful woman could say all she liked that Lancaster's weakness was compromise, but perhaps it was the failure to do so that was allowing Lorca to creep up in speculative polls, more with each passing day.

"Cornelia, wait," she called, half hoping she was too far gone to hear her.

The door creaked open again.

Lancaster let out a long sigh. Her mind turned to the bottle of bourbon she kept in her desk and how easily she could get it out.

"Ending the Games… tell me more."

x

 _Actual chapter courtesy of Damask pending but completing soon enough. I wonder what Suzanne Collins would think of my Capitol naming scheme. She took half of the -us suffix names in Shakespearean canon, I'm branching out!_

 _Sorry to be occasionally interrupting the story, but I contemplated piling this all on y'all at the end and decided against that. There's politicsing happening the whole time! And it affects how things progress. The victor's job doesn't end in the hovercraft home, and if there's a chess match going on in the Capitol, the question becomes who in the arena would make the best pawn and what move to make with them once they win._

 _Also should go without saying, but you may notice pretty much everyone of political importance in this story is a woman. 1) men, am I right? 2) the Mockingjay Rebellion purged most of the politicians in power during the canon timeframe, and, in canon, that was like... all dudes. There's less men now, for military casualty reasons and political casualty reasons._

 _Some men are resentful of the current gendered power balance in the upper echelons of the government, and they show up to Lorca's rallies with lovely signs._


	48. Day 2: Realizations on the Fringes

Day 2: Realizations on the Fringes

x

I'm afraid of death,  
the magician who  
makes vanish and who  
makes odd things appear  
in odd places—your  
name engraves itself  
on a stranger's chest  
in letters of char.

'I'm Afraid of Death', Kathleen Ossip

x

Damask Bhatti, District 8

The swamp never gets quiet. At night, there's hoots and howls and rustling up in the trees and unidentifiable sloshing in the tepid water. Made it hard to focus, waiting in the dark last night. Now the steady noise levels from unseen sources make keeping watch while Samil rests… well, it's nervous, uneasy business.

I'm feeling real good about my slingshot right now, but I know it'd be next to useless against anything much bigger than a housecat. I only have a few pine cones in reserve, and well, they didn't do shit besides make that District 1 guy bleed a bit. Enough to provoke the pigs, I guess - well, Samil said that was me, and I'll take what I can get since my dumb ass had to be rescued from a couple of stupid _pigs_.

Stupid pigs that held back those Careers from District 1 long enough for us to make a clean getaway. Gotta keep myself in a good frame of mind, here. It all worked out just fine for the two of us. I almost hoped we'd hear a cannon as we ran - those huge, vicious mutts might even have been a match for the duo who were tailing Samil - but we didn't, though that doesn't mean they're not injured.

So, call a win a win. It was a win. We're fine now, and they're probably back at their camp by the Cornucopia… like sitting ducks once Samil gets better and we figure out a plan.

The afternoon is wearing down, and so far we've heard, but not confirmed, one cannon some time in the middle of the night, one cannon in the late morning. That last one woke me up when I was drifting off on guard, so I'm feeling lucky about that. There could have been more while I was dozing - even the uneasy atmosphere of the swamp can't compare to how tired and hurt I am, my leg bandaged awkwardly where the pigs' tusks scored it. If there's more than two dead, though, on the second day, that's an almost unnatural amount of bloodshed.

If I didn't sleep through any other cannons, that means… fourteen left? Thirteen left? I try to account for all the death, but my chest gets tight when I think about it for too long. Thinking about death too much makes me remember exactly what this is, where I am, the fucked-up situation I'm in. I can't deal with that too well right now. Especially not when my ally keeps making vague suggestions he killed his district partner. For a _reason_. He must have had a reason.

Now, though, he's sleeping on a tree branch like a baby. I try to avoid staring at my ally as he sleeps, because that would be weird, but there's nothing _else_ to do in the muggy midday heat of the swamp forest.

He finally got some kind of medicine earlier, for the swelling mess of his face - three little needles and instructions on where to do the tiny shots. Color-coded. Easy enough to do. At least I had the chance to be useful as an extra pair of hands. By the time I got the last one in - the bridge of his mangled nose - he was starting to deflate back to normal. By the time he wakes up, he'll be fine.

Clearly, his mentor is not as done with him as he seemed to think - loudly, insisted. So maybe that complaining woke his mentor up or something, convinced him whatever he did to his district partner wasn't so bad. If his mentor is still sending him stuff… it couldn't have been that bad.

Samil has been freaking me out a bit, but no more than everything else that's happened since we've been in the arena. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

His hands are curled around the bloody wooden bat, though too loose for me to believe he's just… laying in wait. He was exhausted when he finally found me. A normal, human thing to be, especially in the Games. Pursued like quarry by the pair from District 1. I should trust him. I shouldn't doubt him.

After all, he saved my ass back there. Who am I to be complaining? Someone gives you a good pair of sheets, you don't start scrutinizing the thread count. You make your bed. And then you lie in it.

I'm lying in it. This is fine.

It says something - it must say something - that he trusts me enough to sleep. It has to mean something. To him, if not to anyone watching.

I wonder who's watching me - there's been no action in our corner of the woods, so the cameras are no doubt cutting to us sparingly, but we're real players. We must be in there somewhere. My mom, my sister - it's satisfying in a kinda awful way to think of them glued to the television waiting for a glimpse of me. While my dad didn't make it to that big goodbye in the fancy room in the Justice Building, mom and Sateen sure made their presence known, almost enough to distract me from wondering what happened to him.

Maybe he's watching, too.

Or maybe he's dead in a ditch somewhere.

Not really something I want to be thinking about - even worse train of thought than just the reality of the bullshit in the arena.

Someone must be watching for Samil. You don't get the way he is without coming from some kind of serious money - Peacekeeper training, all that stuff, that's for rich people. And rich people take good care of their kids. I bet his parents are cheering for him, maybe even scraping together some money to sponsor him. Probably proud of how good he's done, his score and his survival. Killed those pigs, probably coulda killed the District 2 girl if her partner hadn't been, like, right there.

Samil comes off as a bad guy, sometimes, but I don't think that's his fault. It's not an easy time to be a man. We go through a lot of shit - even rich guys, so I can't blame him for… whatever he did.

I wouldn't want anyone to blame me, so why would I do that to him? No point.

The afternoon is starting to blur into evening when he finally wakes up. It happens in a jolt - one moment he's sleeping, the next moment he's awake, alert, back straight, bat in hands, ready to smash something. Not, seemingly, confused.

"Hey," I say awkwardly. "Sleep okay?"

He blinks. "Yeah. Shit, I can blink again."

"Congrats," I tell him, scooting out further on my branch of the big oak tree to give him space.

Waiting for him to put the bat down.

"I'm starving," he says, opening the pack his he's been resting on and downing the remaining half of a pint bottle of water in what seems like a single gulp.

"Careful, we don't have, like, a ton," I say.

He shoots me a withering look. I back off, reaching into my own pack for one of quart bottles of water I've barely touched, as little as I can manage in the oppressive heat. If he's drinking indiscriminately, fine, I will too.

"Pass me one of those big ones," he tells me.

I drink as much as I can manage, then toss him what's left in an underhand lob that he catches easily.

"What'd I miss?" he finally asks, after working through a package of crackers.

"One cannon, like, late morning."

"After last night? That was fast."

"We'll see who it was once the sun sets. I'm pretty sure there's just been two cannons, though. If I missed anything, it's because of how loud it gets in here. The swamp is crawling with stuff. I'm surprised you could even sleep."

He counts off on his fingers. "Seven bloodbath… one yesterday evening… one last night… and definitely one this morning, too?"

I nod wordlessly.

"Ten down. That's crazy, it's the second day and we're already final twelve."

"I think that's why we got to rest uninterrupted. There's been a lot of blood today already. Can't mow through us too fast."

"Hope you're right," he laughs. "I sleep for like, what, six hours - suddenly everyone's dead."

"You didn't miss out on much action. Just the one this morning."

He's fully up now, putting away what's left of the supplies, feeling his face - wincing at his mangled nose, but otherwise looking almost normal.

"Feeling better?" I ask.

"My nose is still smashed," he says bitterly. "No swelling, though. But the bone is practically powder under here. It's trying to heal, but it's too fucked."

I shudder involuntarily at the vivid description.

"Could be worse," he adds. "I'm good to fight, that's the main thing."

"Yeah. Same," I reply, though my leg is still hot and sore.

I don't have the same caliber of sponsorship that Samil does, which shouldn't surprise me - I'm just not the same kind of contender, it makes sense. He's flashy about what he does in a way that turns my stomach, to think of going there myself - I wouldn't express anything but vague disappointment about Jean being dead, if anyone asked. But no one is asking, of course. Why would they ask?

"Have you done anything useful with that slingshot since I've been asleep?" Samil asks.

"What do you mean?"

"Since you were complaining about all the animals in here with us," he says, a little smugly, knowing I thought he was going to let my comment about the noise go un-called-out. "Or were you just complaining for its own sake? A sponsor gambit?"

Samil is a dick. That much I know for sure. But he's right - I can feel my face heat up a little. I shouldn't have just been dozing uselessly.

"I can work on that," I say, a little quieter.

"Make sure you do," he says, yawning. "We're low on supplies."

I wonder who's responsible for _that_.

But then I think about the pigs, the Careers, the girl from District 2, the still-bloody bat swinging dangerously in his right hand. And I don't say anything. Sometimes there's just nothing useful to say.

If I'm gonna make myself look good, though, get any sort of attention and get outside of his shadow, figuring out how to hunt for supplies would be a good start. Everybody likes to think, I guess, that if it came down to it they could kill a person to save themselves, but I don't know if that's me yet. Even here, even with Samil and his bat whistling in the next branch over, knowing _he'd_ do what needs to be done.

Like, I've never even killed an animal, I don't think. Not on purpose. I wish I could have done something about those pig mutts so I didn't lose so much face in front of the audience and my own ally, but then I couldn't, didn't have the tools.

Hunting. The idea is foreign and very illegal - more than illegal, _disrespectful_ and _gross_ , even in District 8 where the week before parcel day can stretch into starvation in the winter months. Not for me, but you see the bums on the street in those months, and then one day they're gone. You hear stories about someone's housecleaner's son or their coworker's out-of-work daughter. Even then, you don't _hunt_ for your food.

There's ways to get help if you really don't deserve to be starving - the Peacekeepers are all flush and it's not like they're gonna beat you to death for asking, cripples can go to the Justice Building and put their name on a list, even for something temporary like a sprained wrist.

Chucking all that out the window and being like 'I'm gonna go shoot some birds' or whatever just proves you're too uncivilized for modern Panem. Who wants to debase themselves like a tribute in the Games or a paranoid rebel who thinks the Capitol is out to get them?

If you're stupid or proud enough to starve, at least hold on to what dignity you have left.

But I'm in the Games now, so I guess it's time to accept that the rules have changed. Samil goes even further than that - he plays above the rules, probably always has. I have to think like him. He can be awful, yeah, but he's gotten us this far without much help from my end, and I _owe_ him for that much. Should have more respect, probably. Should try to do what he says.

Instead of seeing the movement and foreign sounds in the trees as a source of anxiety, I try to see them as a potential bounty. Meat would be good. Thinking about the food in the Capitol - beef, chicken, meats I didn't have words for - oh man, it's all I can think about now. Hunting can't be that hard if rebels can do it.

If only I could just shoot a cooked turkey leg down from the treetops and be done with it. Would a pine cone from this slingshot even be able to kill something? They're small and hard and pointy - like, a little smaller than a coin, bristling with spikes. Maybe it would work.

"I might rest some more," Samil declares, running his hands over his face like he's not quite convinced it's really still there.

"Your call," I say, more confidently now that I have some plan to occupy my time instead of just 'keeping guard' like some kind of gutless tree-animal. "I think I saw a squirrel."

"Nice," he says, stretching langorously. "Try not to die. You'd have to be stupid to get killed at this point. It's been a bloody two days, we're due a break unless someone does something dumb as fuck."

I try not to think about how his break seems to be stretching into a full day off napping in the trees. After all, this is an opportunity to show I'm willing to go all-in, more than Samil, more than probably anyone - who else in the arena is going to figure out how to feed themselves? Other than the plant-eaters from District 7 and 11, who are probably grazing like livestock if they're still alive.

The sun is getting low, at least, from what I can see through the tree cover. It's more the light that's changing, suggesting it's getting on towards the end of the day.

My leg still hurts, but maybe if I do something cool and like, nail a squirrel or something it'll get me a better dressing. I'm probably not getting loads of sponsor attention by sitting around doing nothing, but the escort, Alexas, isn't a total lost cause. Maybe she can scrape something together. It's only day two, after all. How pricey could a good ointment be?

As the sunlight gets more orange and the heat eases just a little, the bugs and whatever else is in the trees get louder. My stomach feels tight as I scan for recognizable shapes - I start thinking about the edible insects station and wishing I spared it even a second thought. I want to ration food, even if Samil won't, but I'm so hungry.

It'll be okay, though - I haven't completely played out my hand yet, I don't think. Final twelve isn't so bad at all, for a first step. I have a good ally, if not a capital-g Good ally.

Doesn't it always come down to that, if you'd rather be with someone than against them? That's just how the Games work. Not like I have to marry him.

Slingshot in hand, I slip down from my branch of the oak tree and sink about an inch into the thick mud. Here, I'm mobile. I could leave right now if I wanted to. I could just walk away and he couldn't stop me. It's my call, and I'm choosing this alliance because I think it's the right choice.

 _I'll take what choice I can get at this point_ , I think grimly, picking my way through the brush, slingshot in hand, in search of something worth killing.

Yeah, it's gross and barbaric and awful, but so's all this stuff. And I'm choosing, also, to keep myself alive - to play the game. Like Samil. He's sharp, sure, but when it comes down to it... I'm no dulled needle myself. I'm playing to win.

That decision, at least, has got to be the right one.


	49. Day 2: Close Encounter in the Treetops

Day 2: Close Encounter in the Treetops

x

What he meant was  
we are all like the saints on my neighbors' lawns-  
whose plaster shoulders & noses,  
chipped cloaks & tiaras, have to be bundled  
in plastic sheets, each winter, blanketed  
from the wind & the cold. That was what he meant,  
though I couldn't know it then.

'God the Broken Lock', David Rivard

x

Yuna Watanabe, District 6

"So, this far south - at least, I'm guessing we're south. Statice, you think we're near District 11, right? And that's… south, I think. Anyway, wherever we are, it's warmer here than in most of District 7. This far _wherever_ , the kind of water hemlock we're looking for is called ' _Cicuta maculata_ ', and it's very poisonous," Fidan explains. "The flowers look like umbrellas of smaller white flowers and you shouldn't eat them."

"Really?" Statice says, cracking a smile. "Because storing the poison flowers in my mouth was my plan. Back to the drawing board I guess."

"Don't be flip," I tell him, keeping my tone even to hide my annoyance. "What else should we know, Fidan? How big, where do we look?"

"They can be anywhere the ground is moist in the time it blossoms - spring and summer. Even in the water. It's really likely there'll be some around, it's a big problem in the swamps where there's logging. Water hemlock looooves swamps."

Fidan's storytelling is really delightful, and she gets so excited talking about things she knows a lot about, even toxic things. There's something gentle, innocent, and very young about her that you wouldn't expect from how competent she is with climbing trees and getting work done. I guess she's only fifteen - though that's easy to forget, since most outer-district kids are small and stringy, regardless of age.

Even in District 6, it's impossible to completely avoid that… divide, because for all the effort my parents have always put into keeping me and Mari and Hideo away from that side of the world, reality seeps through the cracks. Spending my study time in the hospital while I waited for them to come out of board meetings, there were people who looked like us, but also nothing like us. Sallow and bony and old before their time.

Young women, like Fidan, who could have been anywhere from ten to twenty years old.

I never hung around long enough to talk to anyone whose presence made me question my place in the world, my fine dinners and healthy siblings and wealthy parents. And sometimes it feels like that, with Fidan - like I'm listening to her through a pane of distorted glass and will never completely understand why she is the way she is.

So I'm trying not to… project _that_ onto her and the way I think about her, but I'm sure I am, and she deserves better, but I'm what she has.

"We should probably start by heading further from the fringes of the forest," Fidan explains. "And on foot, of course - you miss a lot of things on the first sweep through the trees, even if you can cover more ground that way. Actually, I could probably go ahead and do a sweep, if you and Statice could follow from the ground. Might get lucky."

"Anything but staying here," I say, trying not to grumble.

While the massive oak tree is a refuge from the barrenness of the damp grey beach, it's swelteringly hot this far up in the thick treetops, oppressively humid in a way that makes my shirt and loose pants stick unpleasantly to my skin, and the air here thrums with insects. I'm practically covered in bites.

Moving also would be a good way to defray the risk of whatever the Gamemakers are planning to spice up our experience. I'm sure we've gotten some attention by now for vocally planning to go after the trainee camp, and I've been on-edge ever since I voiced those intentions out loud.

It would be just like the Gamemakers to throw a trainee pair at us right away to see if we're willing to put our money where our mouths are, and I honestly doubt that I can count on much support from Statice or Fidan on that front. Statice is barely a step better than a collaborator, and in Fidan's case, what brought me to her in the first place - her kindness - becomes a weakness when the bodies start falling.

But of course, we're not ready for a fight. None of us. What we're planning isn't a fight.

That's the thing about chemicals, about _poison_ \- you don't need tremendous manpower or bulky muscles to make big things happen, just to understand the way elements of a living thing's cells bind with another molecular configuration. Cicutoxins antagonize inhibitory neurotransmitters that act throughout the nervous system and within pancreatic cells, disrupting the ability of those cells to mitigate excitation. Cellular hyperactivity results in seizures, though deaths as a result of cicutoxin consumption are generally a result of asphyxiation when the hyperactive nervous system interferes with breathing.

There were more cases of cicutoxin poisoning before the electric fence that skirts the boundary of the district was consistently active. Hungry people thinking to augment their families' dinners with what looked, to the untrained eye, like many similar edible roots. That's the tragedy of it - the roots, which look to be the most edible piece of the plant, carry the highest concentration of the toxin. Some instructors describe macabre scenes to which they would be called, back in the day - whole families wiped out by a pot of soup, found around their dinner table in pools of their own vomit.

Now, cicutoxin poisoning is mostly attributed to active attempts to kill someone - it's hard to come by, but some traditional apothecaries retain preserved samples for the right price.

I wouldn't recognize the plant by sight - the public service announcements about poisonous plants don't use pictures or otherwise explain how to discern what is and isn't safe. Just blanket warnings and graphic images of death. Don't even try to get clever and bypass the fence. Who knows what kind of tragic death is waiting for you and your loved ones beyond the boundary?

Swatting away yet another buzzing insect, I hope I'll make it long enough to follow through on my big talk.

All of this relies on us being able to find the plant in the first place, and while I want to believe Fidan's reassurances that water hemlock should grow extensively in this sort of environment, I have no idea if the Gamemakers are on our side or not when it come to this plan. If they want us to succeed, we'll probably find the telltale umbrellas of little white flowers within a half hour of searching.

If not, though…

This has to work. If there's not water hemlock, we'll try something else. _I'll_ try something else.

Some of what's motivating me is guilt. Guilt over Lucas, who I couldn't protect, and fear that the same thing will happen to Fidan, another innocent person who doesn't deserve to be mentioned in the same breath as anyone here by choice. Someone whose family would never have been poisoned in their desperation to forage for food - who left behind a warm bed and a stocked fridge and a future, in favor of ripping the futures from others' bodies.

It seems poetic, that the last people who would have slumped around a pot of hemlock stew had they only stayed at home will be the ones to spasm and die a poor man's death.

"So, do we just want the roots? Can we touch the stems, or do we need, like, gloves? We could maybe pick the plants with the leaves from other plants to keep from touching it," Statice is musing aloud, breaking my focus.

Suddenly, Fidan claps her hand over his mouth.

"Stop," she hisses. "I hear something. Big."

I haven't heard a thing, but I've been deep in my own thoughts - now, without the background of Statice and Fidan's question-answer session, I focus on the noises of the swamp forest around me.

Nothing obvious.

But Fidan is frozen, except for her eyes, which dart around - she's scanning the treetops first, then the forest floor, settling on a location that looks no different to me than the rest of it, still shushing Statice with her hand.

"We need to get out," she whispers, barely audible. "Now."

"How?" I mouth. "What's happening?"

She holds up one finger - _District 1_.

With fresh eyes, I look where she was focusing earlier, and I see the lines of his jaw and brow - the massive trainee from District 1, apparently alone. But who knows what their hunting strategies are? His partner, or another trainee, could be anywhere. They could be closing in on us right now.

And here we are, stuck in a tree - only Fidan able to escape without either laboriously climbing down or breaking her neck.

Statice and I are sitting ducks.

I remember, vividly, how the Career pack last year finished off the female tribute from District 11. Unable to extract her from the tree in which she had made camp… they burned the tree, and her with it.

"Here's the plan," Fidan whispers, finally releasing Statice now that she's convinced he's fully shut up. "I'll get the two of you down. I don't think he's seen us. Hide yourselves somewhere you can run away from if it goes bad. Don't make a single noise. Don't even breathe. I'll go the opposite direction, through the trees, with our packs. So I'll seem like more than one person. I'll break branches as I go, throw some down if necessary, and once I'm far enough away, I'll disappear and circle back. Wait as close to here as possible, so I'll be able to find you again with the supplies after - okay?"

We all pause for a long second - waiting to see if he's heard her explanation.

"What if he has a bow?" Statice whispers. "If he takes you out, he's onto the ruse _and_ he has our supplies."

"That's a risk we have to take," Fidan explains grimly. "It'll give you time to run. I'll scream so you know I'm down."

I'm nodding along with her - it makes sense - but Statice looks horrified, even… sad.

"That was what Dasheen did," he says softly. "I just don't want that to happen again."

Fidan shrugs.

"Take it or leave it. If we stay here, he'll find us. Even if he doesn't kill us now, he'll bring friends back. We have to act," she says.

I've been mostly ignoring the conversation, keeping my eyes trained on the boy from District 1 as he searches the treetops.

Abruptly, his eyes meet mine.

Terror grips me like an icy hand punched through my ribcage.

"It's time to go," I say. "He's made us."

Fidan nods. "Give me the packs and do exactly what I say."

Obediently, I hand over my pack and Statice does the same. As quietly as possible, she slings both over her bony shoulders.

"Climb down there. Fast," she says, gesturing at the lowest branch of the oak tree - still a good six feet in the air.

Statice and I, working together, had trouble getting up to that branch. I don't see how we're going to quickly climb down without breaking a bone or drawing the attention of the District 1 boy and anyone with him.

"I'm going to help lower you down," she says as we climb, following us carefully.

I can't stop glancing back at the District 1 trainee - but he seems to have disappeared.

Once we're out on the limb, Fidan anchors herself to the branch.

"Hold onto my hands and swing down," she instructs me. "Don't worry, you won't hurt me. Once you're dangling, let go. It's only a foot or two down."

"I trust you," I say, kneeling on the thick branch, taking her arms, inhaling deeply, and rolling into the seven feet of empty space beneath me.

She catches my weight, and I feel my fall change to a swing - letting go as soon as I feel both of our arms straighten.

Statice, shortly, lands beside me. Before we can take a second to catch our breath, a distinctly non-human noise breaks the relative silence of the forest.

A roar. Something huge. A mutt?

Fidan looks down from the tree, mouths 'hide!' and disappears.

We've landed in the mud, and my first impulse is to scoop some of it up and rub it on my arms and face, as Statice takes my cue and does the same.

"Here," here says, voice below even a whisper, dabbing more mud onto parts of my face and neck that I've missed.

Though I stiffen at the touch - I do _not_ like being touched - I remember seeing him at the camouflage station with his partner back during training and I don't object.

From the corner of my eye, I see movement - the District 1 trainee has been driven back towards the tree where we were sheltered by an enormous reptile mutt. Lightning-quick for such an ungainly-shaped creature, all fifteen feet of the thing pure muscle beneath black armor, it lunges at him, hissing and bellowing at intervals.

Already, the trainee's leg has been badly lacerated by the thing's long, cone-shaped teeth - he's limping badly, drawing back from the thing.

I can't shake the feeling that we would have been much safer in the tree, but the mutt's purpose is single-minded. Its brilliant yellow eyes are full of hate and locked on its quarry. Not us. The tall boy wielding a short-bladed knife and nothing else.

Relief floods my body - no bow and arrow. From overhead, I can hear Fidan continuing with the plan despite the mitigating factor of the mutt in the equation.

Should we run, hide better? I turn to Statice to ask, but find him still as a statue apart from a tremor in his hands.

He must be terrified. More than I am, seeing the guy who killed Dasheen… he said it was District 1, and here's District 1. At least it seems like the guy is alone, so far. And based on how the fight is going, he may not be that long for this world.

While, at first, the trainee's strategy seemed to be keeping away from the mutt, it stuck with him even as he tried to navigate through the close-set trees. He's only about twenty feet away, now, obscured by the thick vegetation, though it's clear when the mutt launches itself at him, again and again, exactly where the two are.

I'm determined to see these people, if they can even be called that, as a threat and nothing else. But it's harder when they're right in front of me, perversely. It's _hard_ to see someone who looks so human, struggles like a human, as anything but. I try to imagine him foaming, bleeding from the mouth as a result of something I've done - something I've put in his food or water - and the thought turns my stomach, not just because I can smell his blood from here.

Though I know I can't say anything - have to keep quiet so he won't direct his attention to us if he survives - I turn back to Statice to see if he's having the same sort of thoughts I am.

Behind the mud smeared across his face, though, behind his glasses, his expression and his eyes are as hard and cold as I've ever seen them.

There's a difference, I guess, between generally knowing these people are responsible for the deaths of Lucas, Oliver, other relative innocents… and having seen this specific young man cut your district partner's throat.

I wonder if he killed Lucas.

Maybe he did.

The image of him choking on his own blood and bile seems less objectionable now.

Through the trees, the struggle against the massive reptile continues. The monstrous mutt is freakishly fast, but the boy from District 1 is almost superhumanly fast himself. He still isn't winning. Suddenly, the mutt has him by his shoulder, teeth sunk into him - the weight of the thing pulls him to the ground, and while his silver knife is red from the thing's blood, it's single-mindedly rolling him in the mud, seemingly ready to drag him away to drown or eat him.

Against all odds, blood streaming from his shoulder and the severe wounds on his leg, the District 1 boy continues to fight. It's just so much bigger than he is, though - only the lack of space between the trees and the thick underbrush is preventing the reptile mutt from dragging him deeper into the swamp and finishing him off for good.

The two of them - the boy and the mutt - seem anachronously _big_. They don't fit in this part of the arena.

At the angle at which the mutt has him, the boy can't quite get his knife into its throat or anywhere useful - he gouges uselessly at its armoured head, but his blade can't find purchase, can't penetrate the thick skin or the hard bone of the skull.

Statice and I are holding our breath. Our initial fear was that the boy would survive and complete his assumed objective of hunting us down, but… how could he have gotten to us, up in the tree, with only his short-bladed knife? What were his intentions?

It seems we may be in greater danger from the mutt, and now, we're… on the ground, not far from the action, no longer in the safety of the oak's branches.

What happens if it kills him?

Fidan is somewhere in the treetops, and she must be thinking the same thing - our plan to lead him away is useless if the mutt wins this conflict. It won't follow Fidan on a dance through the treetops - it'll whet its appetite with the trainee from District 1 and then Statice and I will be on the menu.

At least, I think that's what she's thinking, because suddenly, from the boughs overhead, someone - can't be anyone other than Fidan - is throwing a broken-off chunk of a branch down at the reptile mutt.

It's a small thing to do, though she follows it up with another fist-size piece of splintered branch.

With the second projectile, the reptile releases its death grip on the boy's shoulder to hiss at the source of the attack, and the trainee wastes no time in rolling away just enough to bury his knife repeatedly into the thing's fleshy yellow throat, so many times and so deep that the reptile mutt's head lolls uselessly to the side.

For a moment, all we can hear is his ragged breathing. He's still _badly_ bleeding, shoulder mangled, leg nearly useless.

He's waiting, I realize, for whoever saved him from the trees to swing down and finish him off.

I'm waiting for that, too - surely, Fidan is of the same mind I am - these people are dangerous, one less trainee is one less obstacle to survival! For all she knows, he killed Oliver! He was going to kill us, he would have in a second!

Statice grinds his teeth, keeping his silence, though I can almost hear him screaming at her to just _do it_.

Fidan holds her ground.

Slowly, the trainee - practically disfigured from the attack, he can barely stand - picks himself up from the mud, retrieves his knife.

The distraction seems to have worked. He scans the trees for us. Or maybe he's looking for Fidan, the girl who just saved his life, the sick bastard…

"Thank you," he says, voice heavy with pain.

I remember that I used to think he was very handsome.

"We drove a predator into these woods this morning," he adds. "Be careful."

Statice stiffens from next to me - I half expect him to rush out and, what, try to kill this guy? With his brass knuckles? But the trainee, as badly wounded as he is, has his knife now. We've missed our window. Or rather, Fidan has.

I wonder what he means with his warning, but Fidan seems to have no intention of asking for a clarification, and as long as Statice and I stay silent, it seems we'll make it out of this encounter alive and with the upper hand.

Clearly in tremendous pain, the boy from District 1 feels out his legs, takes a few shaky steps, scans the trees one last time for his rescuer, and disappears.

There's a long and pregnant silence during which I can still hear, focusing hard, his haphazard movement through the brush.

From the trees, Fidan seems to materialize next to us, making me jump.

"We need to go," she says urgently, returning our packs. "In case he sends anyone back to find us. I don't think he will, but we need to clear out anyway."

Before we can respond, something spirals through the trees, landing in the mud in front of Fidan. A pristine silver package.

She looks at us questioningly and tears it open - revealing a thick-bladed hunting knife, about as long as my forearm from the tip of the blade to the base of the handle.

"Thanks, Saxaul," she whispers up to the sky.

"What's he saying?" Statice asks, seemingly having swallowed his rage, though his voice still comes out thick with frustration. "Go after him?"

"I don't think so. This isn't much bigger than the one the trainee was carrying. I don't think we'd win that fight. Do you think we could eat that mutt?"

"Only one way to find out," I say. "How fresh are your dissection skills, Statice?"

"It's quadrupedal, can't be that different from a pig," he says. "I'll give it a go."

"Who says there's nothing useful about being a good biology student?" I comment, a little wryly, as he takes the blade from Fidan and begins to inspect the massive corpse.

Fidan still looks a little antsy. I decide not to push her on why she just let the boy walk away, but she seems to realize I'm looking at her a little funny, and she sighs.

"I couldn't do it. He… we let him go, so now he owes us a little. If we'd tried to kill him and failed, he could have done some real damage, and then we'd have all the Careers coming down on us… it was just, just the right choice, to keep us alive," she says quietly, not meeting my eyes.

I don't say anything, not disgusted or anything, but… unsettled. Not sure if Fidan is being quite honest.

"I also… I've never killed anyone, Yuna, and I don't _want_ to be a killer. I'm sorry if you think that makes me weak, I just really… I can't just… Yuna, _please_ don't be mad at me, it seems like you're mad at me. I couldn't just _watch_ someone die like that."

Her voice has taken on a distressed timbre, and when she looks up, her eyes are big and wet. Stress, fear, frustration.

I can't blame her. We're all so scared.

Wordlessly, I hold out my muddy arm for a half-hug as we watch Statice struggle with the mutt's thick skin.

"It's okay," I tell her. "You have to do what's right for you. I understand."

 _Just don't get in my way_. I think it, but I don't say it, because that doesn't seem like a comforting prospect.

Fidan doesn't have to kill anyone. I will, though. In her position, not only would I have let the mutt have that boy, damn the consequences - I would have killed him myself, if I had any way to do so. And hell, he was so half-dead, falling out of the tree and landing on him probably would have finished him off.

I don't say any of that. Just pat her back and wonder if, when it comes down to it, she'll be able to make enough of a decisive choice to help me out. Whether I can count on her.

She's so talented, has so much to offer, but I wish I had a way to tell her that's not enough to survive. That these people, that boy she saved, will take advantage of her soft heart, they'll _rip it out of her chest_ if she lets them. I wish I had a way to explain that to her. But I can't, so I don't.

"The meat looks edible," Statice declares.

With her head still resting on my chest, Fidan whispers 'great' and then drags herself to her feet.

"Get it while it's still warm," he adds, and I notice that he's somehow completely separated the leathery and heavily armored skin from the mutt's tail, slicing strips of the pinkish-red meat from underneath that looks almost like an actual cut from a butcher shop.

"Sounds… appetizing," I say doubtfully.

"Beats starving," he sighs, popping a strip of the meat into his mouth and grimacing. "Delicious. Like… raw, rubbery chicken."

At least that makes one problem down - the food issue. Then we'll have to get out of this area, cover our tracks, and find somewhere new to hide - and plan.

I haven't given up. I won't give up. The trainees may all have survived this encounter, but the next time, I swear to any god that's listening, they won't. I won't let them. For Lucas, for Oliver, for Fidan and her gentle heart. I'll protect her, even if she won't protect herself.

For now, though… I accept a strip of the meat from Statice, and try to imagine it's the sashimi that Namie sometimes makes. It's not especially palatable.

I should be used to it by now.

None of this is.

x

 _I aaaaaalmost skipped this chapter in favor of writing the aftermath, but then I was like, that's irresponsible narration just because I don't want to write an alligator attack. Growing up in the south of the US you learn a lot of strategies for surviving an alligator/crocodile attack but especially that they're generally very nice animals that you shouldn't antagonize. That said, they are terrifying strong and fast and the running joke is that the best way to get away from an angry alligator is to have a slow friend._

 _Also, I've been coagulating all of my old plot threads into a coherent narrative lately and now I have a good idea of how the next few chapters are going to work and where I'm ultimately going with the story! Which is very exciting. Stay tuned for Cora and Marcus' return to the Career camp, Renata's first real life-or-death fight, an actual encounter between the outer-district trio and a trainee hunting pair, and Dion and Bridget continuing to do what they do!_

 _Please consider reviewing if you're enjoying the story, though lord knows I'll keep writing regardless._


	50. Day 2-3: Shakeup

Day 2-3: Shakeup

x

my motto for life -  
merit, not sympathy, wins-  
my song against death.

'Blind Boone's Apparitions', Tyehimba Jess

x

Marcus Ota, District 2

"I can't believe you're not asleep yet," I say, genuinely a little surprised. "You took half my guard shift last night. What are you running on, three hours?"

"It's not important," Cora says, shifting in her bedroll, her eyes glued to the sky. "I just wanna see who the cannon was this morning, that's all."

"Who do you think it's going to be?" I ask, rolling my head to try to crack my neck in anticipation of a long guard shift where we've made camp in the pine forest.

"One of those outer district kids, maybe?" she offers. "Probably the glasses one whose partner Jewel and Manari killed the first day. Hard to come back from that."

She glances away from the darkening sky to give me a sad look.

"I can't imagine if you died on the first day."

"I'm not going anywhere," I tell her with a laugh. "You can sleep, really. I'll tell you who it is when you wake up."

"No, I want to see it myself," she insists. "I remember people more by their faces and their voices and what they are. A name doesn't mean anything."

I sigh dramatically, stooping to add some pine needles to the little fire we made in a cleared section of the sand. The flames crackle cheerily, in stark contrast with the unsettling noises and the ever-present thrum of insects that pervades every corner of the arena. Cora is very good with fires, but it's mostly because she has no reasonable fear of burning herself.

The first strains of the anthem interrupt the relative stillness of the moment - she shifts again, and I know her attention is laser-focused on the seal in the sky through the sparse pine-needle canopy overhead.

"Oh my god," she breathes, and I look up too, just in time to see Angel's face overhead, flickering against the wispy clouds.

The image shifts to the girl from District 9, who I'd completely forgotten from the previous night. Angel's last victim.

"Shit," I reply. "Not my first guess."

"Well, you won't have any more troubles with him, then," Cora says matter-of-factly.

I look back at her, not satisfied with that analysis.

"What does this mean for us, though? Like, what went down? Who could have killed him? You don't think is was Renata, do you? She seemed _off_ earlier."

"We can ask her when we get back," Cora sighs.

"If she's _there_ when we get back."

"Why would _she_ kill him?"

"In fairness, if I had to spend another half hour with him this morning I'd have killed him _myself_ ," I say, leaning against one of the larger slash pines.

"So, he was obnoxious. That limits the potential suspects down to…. literally everybody in the arena except for us."

"I dunno," I say. "Who's got the firepower to be taking out a trainee?"

"Samil," Cora says bitterly. "From Ten."

"Hey, he didn't get _you_ ," I interject. "And there's other competitors, too. If the pair from Three are still together… or if Jewel or Manari… y'know."

"That's a scary thought," she says musingly. "If they've gone rogue this early, that could be hard for us. You left the bow at the Cornucopia, right?"

"It's made of plastic, and not the high-grade stuff. The kind of thing you train children with."

"They could still get us with it before we could get them."

"So we'll be careful on the walk-up," I say with a shrug. "Not much else we can do if they've tapped out of the alliance."

"Jewel will still be injured if she hasn't gotten any better medicine yet," Cora says, a little smugly. "I think we could take the two of them, even in our shape. Even if they had the bow."

My leg and my dominant hand are still hurting pretty badly, but I can't help but agree - we should be healed enough by tomorrow morning to take on just about anyone. I'm not worried, especially with the potential advance warning of Angel's death.

I didn't hate the guy or anything, but he _was_ difficult. Also, ally or not, that's one real competitor down. Out of the eleven left, apart from me - well, I'm not shaking in my running shoes at the thought of meeting the girls from District 6 and District 7, or the boys from District 8 and District 11, even knowing the Samil guy could be a real threat. Him, the pair from District 3, and then… my own allies. That's all that I've really gotta be thinking about right now.

And I'm more and more convinced that I can rely on Cora. I think she'd eat her machete before she'd disappoint Claudia. And, well, Claudia didn't exactly treat any of us like beloved family members, not Cora and not anyone else. She seems to have forgotten about that already.

The excitement of the big reveal over, Cora finally seems to be succumbing to her injuries and her exhaustion - she's drifted off mid-conversation, eyes fluttered closed.

Finally, all is still, but for the noises of the fire and the wings of insects in the trees overhead. I'm not trying to stare at her, but it's hard not to with her face so disturbingly close to the fire.

Some things about her are just so hard to completely understand. How Claudia can break her bones and watch her bleed on a plinth in combat and send her to the Games to die but still have some kind of godlike status in her mind. How quickly she decided to trust me - does she do this with everybody who pays an ounce of attention to her? How she doesn't care about hurting, or _doesn't hurt_ , or both.

Watching her sleep is like staring at the tire marks on the road from a fatal accident after the wreckage has been cleared. The blood has long since washed away, but something terrible happened there and it can't quite be erased.

It's not my job to fix her. It's my job to keep us both alive until Aaron tells me not to. Then it's my job to win.

Trusting my sense of hearing and the crunchy pine needles blanketing the sand in the pine forest to keep us safe, I lay back in the sand and watch the stars, to avoid looking at her or thinking too hard about how badly my wounds still hurt. Before Cassie and Alexa were born, my parents would take me out at night to look at the stars. My dad had names for the constellations, and my mom had different ones, and they would argue playfully about which was more accurately descriptive - District 6's or District 2's interpretation of the same patterns of distant light.

Cassiopeia's crown - or her throne - depending on who you ask, shines overhead. To the right, either a bear cub or a ladle. The stars are clearer here than in District 2, where the lights of the central city surrounding the mountain that contains the Center make it difficult to see much more than the brightest stars.

We traveled out a few times, on business or for a weekend away, to the smaller outlying villages that surround the still-active quarries, and it was easier to see the sky there.

Cassie was named after the constellation.

I'm not sure where my name came from, but for the upper class in District 2, it's common to emulate the naming practices of the Capitol in contrast with the traditional naming traditions of the working class.

When I get home, I'll have to ask them.

The night wears on quickly with these thoughts, and I decide to let Cora sleep as long as she can. She did the same for me last night, didn't wake me up to relieve her from watch until well after the agreed-upon time. It'll probably bother her a lot more than it bothered me, but, well, tough luck. If we're going to be taking care of each other like that, she should understand it's gotta be a mutual thing or I look like a jerk.

By the time the sky is beginning to lighten, turning the greenish-yellowish deep blue of an old bruise at the skyline over the ocean, she jolts awake.

"You should have woken me," she insists once she's conscious enough to understand my deception.

"You looked so peaceful," I say, smiling. "I couldn't bring myself to disturb you."

It's very easy to fluster her.

"Well, at least take a nap before we head back," she instructs me, the beginnings of the sunrise meaning she can't hide her flushed face, even behind the swaths of white cotton bandage.

"No problem," I say, knowing she'll actually have to wake me up at the agreed upon time so we'll make it to the Cornucopia before the day starts in earnest.

After the evening and most of the night, my injured leg and hand don't hurt nearly so badly. It's practically criminal, keeping the healing ointment from our allies, but I'm glad we've kept it in reserve for ourselves so far. Cora tends to injure herself horrifically every few hours, and tagging along with her has proved a liability for me as well.

In much less pain, it's easier than it would have been earlier to drift off to sleep until Cora wakes me with a hand on my shoulder, the sun now well over the horizon.

"Good morning," she says. "Ready to head back?"

With my full night's sleep the previous night, a two-hour nap proves enough to keep me squarely in the zone of consciousness, and I have no trouble helping her pack up the camp and kick sand over the fire.

"Do you think they'll be happy to see us?" Cora asks brightly as we begin to trek back to camp.

"If they don't mistake us for ghosts, so covered in bandages," I laugh.

"Well, we're not too far off, I don't think. We got a little turned around trying to get back yesterday, but now that the sun's half-risen over there I think I know where we are."

"Nice," I tell her. "Lead the way, then."

The pine forest is less sinister in the golden light of the morning. I think I see a grey squirrel high in one of the enormous trees as we pass - though I'm not one to stoop to hunting, it reminds me that we haven't had breakfast yet. I might try to make something once we get back to camp, something warm and filling and not-rice-mush-or-energy-bars-and-dried-fruit.

There's really only so much dried fruit a man can eat.

"Almost there!" Cora announces proudly, pointing ahead.

The morning sun glints off the gold shell of the Cornucopia, still far in the distance, but visible through the trees.

"How're your cuts?" I ask, suddenly on my guard with the knowledge that we're almost back in the vicinity of potentially hostile competitors.

"Way better," she says. "I can lift my arms above my head again and I can like, move my face. That's as good as I could hope for. You?"

Experimentally, I flex my right hand, relieved to feel only a little stretch and sting where yesterday evening there was only a hot ball of agony. My leg, too, is pretty well pulled-together. It was cut deeper than my hand, but I can walk on it just fine.

"Gotta love that ointment," I say. "I'm good for whatever gets thrown at us next."

"Should we draw weapons?" Cora asks, noting my furrowed brow with concern.

"I think so," I say, unsheathing my sword as the Cornucopia comes into clearer focus. "Just in case. We don't know what we're walking into."

"No more cannons since last night, right?" she asks.

"Right, I'd have said something."

"Maybe it was a quiet night. We got torn up, Angel got killed, I bet stuff happened with other people. Busy day. Sometimes they gotta just let us sleep, right?"

"A quiet night usually precedes yet another busy day," I say heavily, beginning to wish I didn't have this image to maintain and could've just slept a bit longer.

"Hey, looks like someone's coming out to greet us," Cora begins, then shrieks as something rips past us, tearing half the bandage from her face.

Before I can fully process what's happening, she throws herself over me, knocking us both to the ground. I narrowly avoid both skewering her with my sword and being disemboweled by the machete she still carries.

"Next one's going through your fucking chest if you don't start explaining real fast what the fuck happened yesterday morning!" Jewel calls.

Well, shit. Apparently she has a better throwing arm on her than she let on in training.

A single spear wobbles slightly where it's been lodged in a pine tree behind us, at least three inches deep.

She's not playing around.

I wrack my brain for what she could be upset about. She thinks we killed Angel and broke the alliance? She thinks we… hurt Manari? Hurt her, somehow? Badmouthed District 1? Insulted her eye makeup? Angel said he thought she wore too much at the final night party and she looked like she was about to gut him before Renata intervened.

Honestly, I can't think of anything else we might have done, and I give Cora an urgent look from where she is… of course, trying to shield me with her body.

Tapping her gently on the shoulder, I extricate myself from where I'm spread-eagled in the sand.

"I can manage myself," I remind her. "But we need to think fast, here."

Oh, shit. Did she find out about the ointment?

"Yesterday morning," Cora hisses. "That's when we left, anything after we left wasn't our fault! How would she know? She was asleep!"

 _That's it_.

"I'm going to stand up, so please don't kill me yet," I announce, hoping I don't sound too flippant as I pull myself to my feet and shake the sand out of my hair, leaving my katana on the ground.

"Start explaining if you want to keep breathing," Jewel says, from a distance, and I hear the sincere and righteous fury coloring her voice loud and clear.

"Angel was being obnoxious and we left before he and Renata cleared out," I say, holding my palms up in surrender. "We told them to wake one of you up before they left. I take it that didn't happen?"

She's standing, spear in hand, beside a small arsenal of ready weaponry. If we don't defuse this situation fast, Cora and I are dead.

" _Is that so_?" Jewel says slowly.

"I was there! It's, uh… it's so!" Cora pipes up helpfully, standing up next to me.

I try not to roll my eyes.

Out of the thousands of situations in which Cora is a helpful and reliable ally, matters of diplomacy are… not those situations.

"Look, we're as freaked out as you are about this whole Angel thing," I say, gambling on her not having been the one to kill him based on the fact that Renata is still alive somewhere in the arena. "I don't know what to say - we left early, got torn up by some mutts but made it out, and now we're back. If Angel left you asleep, that's an alliance-breaking move. If he was still around, I'd take him out myself."

Still seemingly on the fence, Jewel lowers her spear only a fraction of an inch.

"I didn't kill him, but I'd like to know who did so I can send them a fucking gift basket," she says, tone dripping with acid. " _Someone_ left us like fucking sitting ducks here."

"Look," I continue, " _Alliance-breaking move_. If we pulled that shit, we wouldn't be so keen to show our faces back here. Who came back? Who didn't? That should speak for itself."

Cora, blessedly resigned to silence, nods vigorously in support of my point.

Even from so far away, I can see Jewel's face contort - her eyes narrow as though she's mulling over what I've said. Finally, her forehead relaxes and she drops her spear to her side.

"Fine, I guess. Come on back over."

"Allies?" I demand, knowing Aaron would probably cuff me if I failed to solicit proper verification before walking back into a trap.

At least this way she's a little bit on the hook if she decides to turn around and skewer us once we get a bit closer.

"Yeah, glad to have you guys back," she says with a long sigh as we approach.

From only a few feet away, Jewel looks _bad_. Her face is strained with pain and worry, sallow from blood loss. I wonder how much she's slept. Less than Cora, less than me.

"Everything okay?" Cora asks, ever the medic.

"Manari limped back in last night half-dead," Jewel says. "I need help. I don't know how to help him. I just wrapped him up with some antibiotics and put him in the tent, made him drink some water, but I don't know how to… I'm not good at this."

"Hey," Cora says reassuringly. "I actually have great news. Marcus and I got hurt so bad from the mutt, our mentors sent us some great ointment that heals things super fast! We're willing to share, especially since… y'know, I wish we didn't just trust Angel to do the right thing, that was stupid. But this will help make amends, right?"

She shoots a barely-perceptible look at me to gauge my reaction as Jewel's face softens.

Well, fuck me, apparently Cora isn't as bad at this diplomacy thing as I thought. Gotta hand it to her.

"Can you look him over?" Jewel asks, and though I know she'd be too proud to admit it, there's a bit of a pleading edge to her voice.

Cora has regained the high ground in this situation now, and she knows it.

"Of course," she says reassuringly. "And then, you have to let me take care of your arm. You've been working so hard."

 _Okay, don't overdo it_ , I think.

Jewel seems a little too bleary and out of it to catch on to how terrible Cora's acting is. The sooner I can separate them though, the better.

"Hey, while Cora takes a look at Manari, why don't I start with your arm?" I offer.

She nods, gesturing Cora towards the tent that the pair from District 1 were theoretically supposed to share.

"How are you _really_ doing?" I ask her softly, unrolling the bloody bandage from her arm once we're in relative privacy.

I don't usually do the 'turn on the charm' thing unless it's to banter with service workers or win over my parents' older associates or philanthropic donors at their events, but if it's worked so far on Cora it might be useful here, too.

"Well, I'm losing my fucking mind, for one thing," Jewel says, laughing harshly. "I hate this so much. I feel useless. Can't help my district partner, can't keep those fucks from Four from hanging us out to dry…"

She seems to realize she's saying too much, and she clamps her mouth shut as I finally get the bandage off.

Her wound doesn't look too bad. It was cleaned well enough and the antibiotic must have helped, but there's still some yellowed tissue dotting the red gouge in her forearm.

"I'm going to try to scrape some of this away with some clean bandages so we can wash the wound again, okay?" I say, ignoring her oversight.

"Great," she says. "Fix me up, doc."

I laugh, even though it's not that funny.

"Don't be too nice, now," Jewel cautions me. "Cora strikes me as the jealous type."

Ah, looks like I've hit a fine line here. I don't have enough experience to fully know how to cross this tightrope.

"We're allies," I remind her, adding, "and friends, I hope."

Her smile doesn't reach her eyes.

"Of course. Ow, shit."

I may have debrided her wound a little harder than necessary. Recognizing the comment for what it was - a push - it seemed appropriate to push back rather than acquiesce. I hope I made the right call.

"Let's add some more antibiotic," I say, brushing aside her protest and applying some of the thick gel that I know will be at least a little soothing.

"What a mess," she sighs - looking at me, not her mangled arm.

"Cora, can we get some of that ointment?" I call, not breaking eye contact with Jewel.

I will _not_ blink first.

Before we can go any further on that path, though, Cora rolls out of the tent - smeared with notably more blood than before.

"He's not going to die or anything," she announces, disregarding the tense situation entirely. "I'm just cleaning a ton of stabs. He's bruised bad, but nothing seems completely crushed. There's pills to keep the blood from pooling and get the inflammation down, and he can take those once the tooth-stabs have healed. How's Jewel?"

"Relieved," Jewel replies innocently. "I was worried about him."

"Well, he needs a lot of care still," Cora says, a little confused now that she's actually paying attention. "I'll want to stay by his side for at least a few more hours to make sure he's out of the woods."

"How long till he's up?" Jewel asks. "I can't just hang around here much longer, I'm losing my shit stuck here."

"I'm putting my foot down, even if he says otherwise," Cora declares. "He's out of commission until he's had a full night's sleep. Eight hours to heal, no fewer."

"So you're an expert now?" Jewel counters. "Once he can walk, we're going hunting. I'm not staying here a second longer than I have to."

"I'm as close as you have to one," Cora insists, handing me the ointment and crossing her arms. "And you're hardly in a position to be telling me what to do."

The tube isn't empty, but it's not full either. I squeeze a lima-bean sized amount out and distribute it evenly across the tear in Jewel's arm.

There's that cagey look again in her hazel eyes, like a wounded animal. Jewel's not doing too well. Could _definitely_ use some sleep, but seems unwilling to accept that. At least now her enmity isn't directed towards me at point-blank range, though distributing it to Cora isn't much of an improvement. I hope this interaction hasn't started some fresh rivalry.

"It should start working very quickly," I say soothingly, taking great care not to do anything to hurt Jewel as I begin to wrap her arm and hand the tube back to Cora.

"I sure hope so," she says, reluctant to turn her stare away from my partner. "I need to get back out there."

"And you will," I reassure her.

She pauses, giving me a look like she's just realized something.

"Come to think of it, yeah, I will," she repeats. "I don't need to wait for Manari. You'll come with me. Cora can take care of him, since she's such a professional."

' _No_!', comes the emphatic response from Manari, apparently conscious in the tent.

"Sounds like _he's_ not on board," I say, trying to stifle a laugh at the thought of leaving a badly injured Manari at Cora's mercy.

"They should get to know each other better," Jewel says, smiling. "Y'know, Marcus, me and you, we get along fine. I think these two need some work."

Cora makes a vague noise of concern, but that gets eclipsed as, from within the tent, Manari groans ' _please_ , no', again, which only makes the whole situation more hilarious.

Maybe we do need a bit of a shakeup. As well as Cora and I can play off each other, we're running out of tricks to keep it interesting, in part because neither of us has half a clue what we're doing. Separation raises the stakes, and gives us an easy next-step. Separation-reuniting is a simple narrative to follow. Provided I can keep Jewel from running me through, which I think I can. By force if necessary.

"I think it's a good idea," I say. "It's day three, Cora, people are getting hungry and that'll make them brave and put our supplies at risk. It's not like you won't see any action here. At the same time, if we all stick together and don't do anything flashy, who knows what hell the Gamemakers will rain down on us for not doing our jobs? We have a job."

"But..." she insists, "you should rest first, have something to eat. Your wounds are barely healed, and everyone's in the swamp forest now, and if you could see how bad Manari was torn up you'd think _twice_ about jumping in."

"I _also_ hate the plan," Manari grumbles, and thought I can't see his face from inside the tent, I can imagine it well enough.

"Oh, learn to deal," Jewel laughs, tapping on the roof of the tent. "C'mon, expand your horizons."

"I like my horizons already," he insists.

"Look, I'll be back before you know it," I reassure Cora.

"I just don't want you to _leave_ ," she says plaintively.

Jewel stifles a snort of laughter under a feigned cough. I struggle not to turn and glare at her. Give me a damn minute, _please_.

"Final two," I remind her. "For that to happen, everyone in the swamp forest has to go down, and we're not gonna manage that if I just hang around here, right? And you're our best bet at keeping Manari alive. I'm not nearly as good at healing stuff as you are. It just makes sense."

She nods, looking cross but resigned.

"Okay, fine," she sighs. "You're right, anyway - about the supplies, and all the tributes in the forest. I trust you."

"I have _not_ agreed to this," Manari exclaims from the tent.

"You're outvoted," Jewel says. "I thought you were Mr. Tolerant, was I wrong?"

He says something darkly that doesn't bear repeating.

"It's settled then," I announce. "Let's have some breakfast, pack up, and head out."

Cora returns sullenly to the tent to finish patching up Manari's wounds, and I'm alone with Jewel once more.

"What exactly are you hoping to accomplish with this?" I demand, keeping my voice too low to be easily heard from any distance.

"Maybe I want to get to know you better," she purrs.

"Oh, cut that out," I say. "You can't play a player."

"A player? Please. Don't try me. You are _so_ far out of your league," she laughs. "There's some things you can't fake."

"So it's gonna be a full day of _this_ ," I sigh. "I think I'd rather just take whatever mutt they use to punish us for sticking around and doing nothing."

I know for a fact that Jewel isn't half the sexed-up image she constructed for the pre-Games. Know for a damn _fact_ that she was much more interested in making bad jokes and talking strategy for the half-week I got to know her than doing anything her eyes are suggesting now. She's tired, she's on-edge, she's devolving - or she really _is_ playing me, and I have no idea which.

"Most men wouldn't turn me down," she says with a smile.

I swallow, hard.

"I'd never turn down a hunting trip, which _must_ be what you mean," I say sharply, aware that with the speed my words are tumbling out I must seem flustered.

But I'm not. Not flustered.

"If you say so, player," she says, and I realize as she sashays over to the Cornucopia to begin preparing our packs that her gait has changed entirely from what it was both when she was threatening us and when she was fretting over Manari.

The last time I saw _this_ Jewel was on the interview stage and so help me I am _not_ falling for it. I am _not_ some deluded Capitol man who sees her give a saucy wink and thinks he's getting any more than that - any more than a wink and a knife in his back.

I need to recollect myself.

"Hey," Cora says, emerging from the tent again. "He's not happy about… anything, right now, actually, but he's napping. I told him a sleeping pill was a pain pill and it seems to have worked."

She gives me an appraising look.

"Is something wrong? You seem tense. You _really_ should get some sleep, too. I can guard. You don't have to leave right away, do you?"

My mouth feels dry all over again. This may be my last chance to avoid going into the swamp forest with Jewel. But I feel my sword at my side - my hand almost totally healed - and I think, what's the worst that could happen? What _couldn't_ I handle?

"I'm fine," I say.

"O...kay," she replies doubtfully, checking my forehead with the back of her bloody hand as though she's concerned I have a fever.

"For real," I say, summoning up a smile.

"I trust you," she says again.

All I can think about is how, sincerely, she shouldn't. But that doesn't stop her, of course, because nothing stops Cora once she's made up her mind about something or someone, not logic or broken bones or mutts or common sense or fire.

I hope she'll be okay without me.

The sincere concern for her safety is… new, and surprising, but I shake it away as quickly as I can. I have my own problems to worry about.

"You should have some breakfast too," I say, experimentally stoking the coals of the fire we left behind, relieved to find them still alive. "We can boil eggs, cut up some fresh fruit, make some oatmeal, a nice hearty meal."

"Sounds good," Cora says brightly, hopping over to the Cornucopia to help with prep work, though I notice that she gives Jewel a wide berth.

I hope I'm making the right call. I mean, mixed pairs within the trainee alliance hunt all the time - it almost would have been weird if we hadn't switched up at some point. But for all of Cora's issues, I can count on her loyalty if I can count on anything in this hell-dimension of a world, where lobsters try to eat us and I'm the one, for once, being seen through. With anyone else… I'll need eyes in the back of my head.

But what's the alternative? I stay and deal ineffectively with Manari while Jewel gets Cora to admit everything about the ointment and everything else after twenty seconds of questioning? Admittedly, Jewel could play either of us just as well. But if _I_ can so easily find the cracks in Cora's armor to win her over, there's no way Jewel would have any trouble if they spent much time alone. And then, well… I guess I'd still trust Cora to do what she thought Claudia wanted her to do, but that doesn't necessarily align with my interests, and I need to keep all that balanced. I need her as firmly on my side as possible.

Maybe gallivanting off with Jewel isn't the best way to do that, but it beats… any alternative I can think up. Shit.

I try to push all of the conflicting signals out of my head and focus on one question: what would Aaron tell me to do?

He didn't like Cora all that much beyond cursory tolerance. Maybe because she's always been so wrapped around Claudia's little finger, and Claudia isn't exactly Aaron's favorite person in the world. From the start, he was insistent that if I _really_ wanted to endear myself to District 2, my best bet would be to learn some rocks and drop some names and keep myself a safe distance from my psychotic time bomb of a partner.

But he was wrong about that. This is working out fine.

I should just talk to her.

Yeah. That makes sense.

"Hey, Cora," I say, "could you help me fill this stewpot up with seawater?"

"Huh?" she says, poking her head out of the Cornucopia. "Weird choice, but okay. It's a big pot for four people."

As I nod towards the shore, she _seems_ to cotton on to the fact that this is a pretense to speak with her alone, and obediently picks up the massive stewpot and follows me towards the shore.

"What do you… think about this setup?" I ask abruptly once we're out of earshot, camouflaged by the sound of the waves.

"It seems ridiculous, like, what are you going to do, use seawater as a base for oatmeal? That sounds gross and salty, but like, I'm not complaining. As long as you boil it, I don't think it's _dangerous.._."

"No," I laugh. "Jesus, that was an excuse to get you over here."

"Oh," she says. "Well, I don't think I'll be able to trick Manari into drugging himself to sleep twice, but I can deal. Who knows, maybe he's actually _not_ as preachy and self-important as he seems half the time. And I mean, he _should_ be grateful, once I have him fixed up."

"And that's, like, the only thing you're worried about?" I say slowly.

"If Jewel tried to kill you I'm pretty sure you'd win that fight," she says with a shrug. "You got an eleven. She's like the size of an eleven year old. Just come back in one piece."

"Okay," I say, a little relieved, but a little perturbed for other reasons. "I guess the whole kissing thing kinda threw me off on what this was."

She laughs.

"Yeah, about that, let me just say again, I'm _so_ sorry - I know I'm basically useless at that stuff, but anything you think will help, I'll give it a go. Just say the word!"

I must be grimacing, because she laughs again.

"Oh _no_ , was I that bad?"

"No, not at all," I say. "Thanks for talking to me, I'm glad I was worried over nothing."

The tire marks on the pavement are more clear now than ever. Or maybe I'm projecting my own bullshit in her direction. I'm not so sure anymore.

"Look, I'm your ally and your friend," she adds. "Not in the Jewel way, in the real way. You've been really kind to me, and you don't… have to, y'know. But I appreciate it. You don't owe me anything. Just… final two, okay?"

I wonder if I've ever actually understood anything about anything.

"You seem really… well," I tell her.

"The full night's rest really helped," she says. "Thank you for that."

"You two planning on making a swim for it, or are you gonna come back and help me with breakfast?" Jewel calls.

Cora shoots me a look.

"Coming back! I _finally_ talked him out of his seawater oatmeal plan, don't worry, we're safe from his cooking for now."

I wish I could get some sleep - my head isn't on straight, it feels like my brain is trying to swim through molasses. It's both a little comforting and a little worrying to remember that Jewel is much more off-the-reservation-exhausted than I am.

"Sounds like we finally found something Marcus can't do," Jewel laughs as we approach.

"He didn't know there was a difference between peppers like the vegetable and ground pepper," Cora says conspiratorially. "I saw him get confused on the train when our escort offered him the shaker."

"Don't tell her that!" I say, feigning embarrassment at the story that emphatically did not happen. "I'm not a chef, how should I know?"

The little aside seems to have the desired effect - Jewel doesn't appear actively suspicious about our interlude to the beach.

"I was just thinking," Jewel says, slicing up a pear with the edge of a comically large two-handed sword, "Manari says the outer district kids, Six-Seven-Eleven, are together and probably weaponless. We know Renata has a spear, but I don't think she's much of a thrower - her form wasn't great at the station. And between the Eight-Ten guys, one has a slingshot and he's pretty good with it. No news on Three. That's what you're up against, taking care of Manari."

"Sounds doable," Cora replies, busily emptying a bottle of water and half a bag of rolled oats into one of the pots.

"If I come back and he's dead, I'll kill both of you," Jewel adds, looking from me to Cora.

Cora doesn't blink.

"Back atcha. Marcus comes back _alive_ , or you won't," she says placidly.

Again, that weird tension between the two of them. I think back to Jewel's skepticism of Cora in training, and wonder if that's at the root of it or if there's something else.

"Glad we understand each other," Jewel announces. "Who wants some pears?"

Breakfast is good, if quiet. I think not murdering each other is about the best possible outcome, which makes it a higher-stakes breakfast than most, though I've had worse.

"Ready to go?" Jewel finally asks.

"As I'll ever be," I say, slinging my pack over my shoulder and staring off into the swamp forest, wondering what waits for me there.

Just in general… what's next?

x

 _It's hard to manage the passage of time, you may have noticed, when I'm doing one POV per chapter and half of the POVs are time-overlapped because, like… things happen! But also I reread the whole series like twice while I was in the woods with my best friend over Thanksgiving break and I'm determined not to have the whole Games be over in four days and also to give a fair shake to everybody who's still alive without making this whole thing like a million words._

 _So, I think the temporal movement like, 'worked' here, and at this point the alliances are pretty static and you basically know where everybody is, so I'm not freaking out so much about extensively covering everyone._

 _Of twelve remaining: Bridget and Dion are hanging out in the cave. Fidan, Statice, and Yuna are on the run in the swamp forest. Closer to the boundary with the pine forest, Renata is flying solo (and we'll check in with her next), Damask and Samil are also treed in the same general area, Cora is sticking at the Cornucopia with Manari, and Jewel and Marcus are about to set out on a hunting trip and shake! things! up!_


	51. Day 3: Dado a la Chingada

Day 3: Dado a la Chingada

x

No one else could _see  
_ Beyond one world, none existed.  
And you yourself cried the night  
the city burned  
and burned at your orders.

The most beautiful city on earth  
in flames.  
You cried broken tears the night you saw  
your destruction.

'La Malinche', Carmen Tafolla

x

Renata Ortiz, District 4

I dream of home - an errand with my friend Itsaso that stretches into a frustrating odyssey through the market to procure a specific kind of filament thread for my father to complete a cast-net he's been weaving. The market is even more washed of color and crowded with people than I remember, and I keep losing track of Itsaso, whose pace is impossible to follow - he disappears ahead in the throng around a shellfish vendor and suddenly I can't discern his dark head of hair from the people around him.

He doesn't look back, and now I'm really lost, panicking in a thickening mass of people, bodies pressed around me, and then there's no one.

Me and Angel on a murky grey beach, most of his top half separated from his body like the corpse of the boy from District 5 when Marcus sliced him in half. But the head is still alive, and his eyes twitch open in response to my presence.

" _Ahora estás dado a la chingada_ ," he says, and his slack lips twist into a death grin. " _Te encontrarán, te matarán. Corra._ "

A response coils in my throat but my lips won't move to voice it, seeing him like this - it's like I killed him, I might as well have killed him, I might as well…

I wake up in my makeshift camp in the swamp forest to relative silence. Just the noise of my tense, irregular breathing, sand crunching beneath my bedroll, and the brush I've used to sort-of-camouflage myself itching at my skin.

Still in the arena. Angel is still dead. I'm still alone.

At least I can distract myself a bit, now that I'm awake. Get my mind, for a moment, away from blood and death and fear.

Finding a drier patch of sandy earth last night was a touch of good luck, meaning I didn't have to risk trying to strap myself into a tree when I barely know how to climb. The trees are so different here. Like, I know what a real tree-tree looks like, but so many of them all together is disorienting. I wonder how people live like this, not being able to see much more than twenty feet away with all the tangled vegetation. Not able to see the sky.

It's lonely. My thoughts echo against the canopy.

I've never felt so far away from other people. We're jammed together like sardines in Four, especially the part of the coast where my parents live. Even running on the beach, with the rolling grey fog of the morning obscuring the little houses, there's the sense that you're never really alone. I've never been alone like this.

I'm alone, now, and I know that for certain.

Neveah may not be in the arena with me, but my mentor's silence tells me everything I need to know - I'm dead to him. He really didn't like me, particularly, and was mostly ambivalent about Angel until his interview, when he blew me out of the water and, according to Neveah, showed a real spark, a real shot at making it on par with the _actual_ trainees.

Probably the nicest thing anyone'd ever said to Angel.

He didn't give up on us, in training, which was more than I expected from an older inland guy whose interactions suggests he considers trainees from the coast, like, slightly better than rats. Stories float around about him ditching unpromising trainees, leaving them to our escort, and just going out drinking with his mentor friends, the older victors from District 1.

He tried with us, at least. Was determined to coach me into something likeable, even though I fell flat in the interview. Whatever happened in past years, this time he really gave it like… some effort.

And in one split-second decision I messed it all up for him. Must suck, finally putting in a little bit of the work, really pushing the trainee alliance, actually trying on the interviews and throughout the pre-Games, only for me to abandon Angel, who he was starting to seem to kind of like, to his death.

So I'll have to handle my own situation with food and water, it seems.

Some of that is just guessing, because I'm well-stocked enough that I'm not currently in need of anything he'd be withholding. It'll be a while before having double-crossed my own district and left my partner to die catches up with me in earnest. Food and water should last… three or four days, if I'm careful, and… I have weight to lose, I can afford to be careful with what I've got.

 _Angel packed well, at least_ , I think grimly. _Thanks, you lunatic fuck_.

Staying angry at _him_ is easier than thinking about his face in the sky and his words in my dream and wondering how he died. Knowing it was his own damn fault, but still wishing I could have… I could have helped him, somewhere down the line. Been kinder in training, tried harder to be the kind of ally who helped us… he wanted to fit in, I think, and I… definitely didn't help with that.

But that wouldn't have changed anything, wouldn't have made our allies the same kind of human that we are. We were, I am, he … was?

I'm all scrambled from not sleeping enough, my dreams having wrenched me in and out of consciousness.

The sun isn't quite up, but I need to get moving and the last thing I want to do is to sink back into that dream, have to face Angel again. Awake is marginally better, even with tiny grains of sand clinging to my exposed arms and the side of my face, no matter how hard I try to brush it away.

They'll be coming after me soon, like he warned me, my former allies. Whether because of Angel's bullshit or because they think I killed him or they just decide they want to graduate from killing defenseless children to someone who'll give them a real fight. It happens every year - they turn like wild beasts, bored with what only _runs_ when they chase it.

Returning is not on the table.

So I pack up, cleaning as much sand as possible from my bedroll and finishing a quart bottle of water I've been working on since yesterday evening, and I run.

 _Corra_ , he said.

 _Mírame, pendejo_ , I think.

Running is easy and familiar, something I've been training for far more effectively than the rest of this. Killing does not come easily, but pointing my shoes away from where I came from and keeping myself upright in the softening earth… if it weren't for the density and foreignness of the thick trees dripping with moss and the wet noises of the mud, I could almost be on the shore in the early morning, half a mile in and thinking of nothing but how I'm going to manage a breakfast for myself with an empty cupboard.

But this isn't familiar, of course. As the trees' density changes, I find my pace slowing to avoid tripping over exposed roots, jutting knees, and slippery patches of mud. I can barely do more than walk, threading through black-barked trunks too close-together to pass facing-forward.

The arena is pushing me back in the direction from which I came. Of course. It's too much to ask to walk alone, unaccosted.

I wonder if the Gamemakers are as displeased with my conflict resolution skills as I imagine Neveah is, back in some control room, or more likely ranting to one of his mentor friends about how useless Angel and I proved to be after all.

The question is if the Gamemakers wanted to see me be killed by that District 3 guy, Dion, or wanted me to kill him. Because the direction I chose, with both of us walking away alive, was not even in the ballpark of expectations.

And now I've proven I'm off the rails laid by years of training...

I can feel their hands on the arena as surely as I can feel their eyes on my skin. I'm not making it up - it's like the obstacles to my path disappear once I'm going in a direction that'll lead me where the Gamemakers want me. But resistance, at this point, seems like a losing proposition. I hold my heavy spear close to my body, ready as I can be for whatever mutt or ex-ally or whatever the fuck else they opt to throw at me. I know what's coming.

For a long time, though, nothing happens. I'm still alone with my footsteps muffled by the sand that gradually turns to mud, thicker and thicker until I'm slogging through water, though at least I have a field of vision again as the trees separate around me. It's so hot that the fetid swamp practically seems to be steaming. That's the worst part - sweating through my shirt, my hair clinging to my scalp, not totally free of sand, either.

At least on the coast you have the sea breeze, even in the heat of the summer. Some relief. None here. Silence and humid heat and thoughts I push away before they can gain purchase.

Did the District 3 girl kill Angel? Was it Dion, her partner who I left unscathed? If it was him who did it, the one I had a chance to take out, then I'll be irredeemable in the eyes of my district. It's not just the Career camp that I can't go home to. Maybe. Maybe not.

Guess we'll just see what the Gamemakers cook up for me - what kind of penance I'll do.

Increasingly, I can see where I'm going. The trees have thinned enough to get a sense of my general path twenty, thirty feet ahead.

Something in the way - far ahead. Not a tree. A mutt? Crying out. I can't quite discern the words.

I turn to get _away_ from whatever it is. Out of sight, out of mind.

But my grip on my spear changes, and I slow slightly to better hear what I'm running from. And when I realize what it is... I grind completely to a halt.

"Is someone there?" a voice pleads. "Help me, please, I don't know if he'll come back... he pushed me out of the tree, please, help, please don't leave me... I can't feel my legs, just kill me, please!"

The boy from District 8.

His fear tugs at my heartstrings. But I resist, for a long second, looking away and seriously considering just running. No matter how scared he sounds.

Because I remember his ally - the strange-eyed, cruel boy from District 10, who gave even my terrifying allies a moment of pause. How their confident laughter turned nervous and even Jewel suggested they'd have best luck up against him in pairs. The same things they said about that boy I came across earlier, Dion, who could have killed me, probably, if he'd wanted to. He didn't.

In that interview, it seemed clear that Samil from District 10 was dying to take a piece out of anyone who thought themselves better than him.

This idiot allied with _that_? Shouldn't he have seen this coming?

That thought, finally, twists my heart like a vise.

Am I really in any position to judge someone by their allies? When less than a day ago, mine included a picture-perfect set of disaffected sociopaths and Angel's dumb ass, too off the reservation to do anything but what he thought was expected of him.

If I can't forgive this helpless boy from District 8, of all places, twisting in the mud, do I have any hope for forgiveness myself?

I remember the voice of Dion from District 3, which was warm and gentle, like he was talking me off the ledge of one of those Capitol buildings, ushering me into the only reasonable choice I could possibly make. _Walk away. His life isn't yours. Don't lose yourself to save someone who's already lost._ There's so much power in a voice.

This boy is terrified, whether of me or his ally or someone else - that much is obvious. Could anyone be such a good actor? I can't… I don't think I can live with myself if I walk away from this.

And besides… whatever's going to happen will happen anyway.

That's the brutal fact of it - there's nothing I can do that the Gamemakers wouldn't manipulate me into doing just as easily if ratings dipped or too much time passed without blood.

I take a deep breath and turn back towards the boy's voice.

Now I'm actively searching for the source of his frightened cries - though I can't pick out any further exclamation, someone is caught in the mud somewhere nearby, and while I'm not good at navigating this forest without the divine guidance of the Gamemakers, this, at least, I can manage.

I can help someone. I can help someone. I have... a first aid kit, some ability to use it, mostly from watching _Cora_ but the guy at the station said she was good. I can help him with his wounds at least, share some of this massive pack of provision that weighs me down so heavily by my shoulders.

See, I have a chance... it was good, to save myself, not to die honorably for Angel, who I couldn't help. This is a person I can help. And I don't dare to hope for the opportunity to not be alone, because how could a real child of the districts trust someone like me? But maybe.

If I could convince this boy, maybe I could convince myself.

As he comes into my field of vision - I think, there's definitely a shape in the mud, definitely in distress.

"Hey," I call. My voice feels so rusty! "Hey, hey, I'm not gonna hurt you, calm it. Calm you."

It's hard to get my words out in a language I know he'll understand, since my head is always such a jumble of tongues, but I think I see his movement still slightly.

I breathe a deep sigh of relief. It's working.

Then something registers as wrong. The sound of insects wings overhead, ubiquitous when I was alone, is gone. The canopy overhead is not quite still, but there's not the little signs of life. What do the bugs know that I don't?

I whirl around, just in time to see a figure drop from one of the lower branches, expertly landing in a swift roll before rising to his feet, holding a mud and bloodstained bat.

A few feet's distance from bringing it down on the base of my skull.

Instantly, I have my spear ready, up and in position. He would have had time to catch me off guard, if I hadn't noticed the strange silence in the treetops.

He swings the bat a few times, not connecting with my spear, but just enough to make it clear that he _could_. It's kind of a useless, posturing move. He has a good arm, clearly, but this isn't remotely how we'd be taught to approach a fight with a better-armed opponent back in the Center.

I think I could kill him. He's shorter than I am, but just as broad, so we're more-or-less equally maneuverable through the trees. I have a longer reach and a better weapon. If I put my head into this I could push him back until the vegetation got too tight or tripped him up, then skewer him.

It would be so easy.

But there's something about him that gives me pause, because he's acting with that anger, it seems, that he showed in the interview. Not the cold mechanical way that Jewel or Manari would go about dispatching someone in a trap.

I don't want to kill anyone but them.

Why should I get to play judge and executioner for this boy, because of a _vibe_ in _training_? He didn't volunteer for this. He and his muddy ally are trying to survive as surely as I am, and I _chose_ this. I have the blood of children on my hands already, and I'm not sure I can say the same for either of them.

Any dog will bite once you've got it cornered, and I'm doing exactly that, pressing him back into the denser trees. I'm cornering him. By putting him in the arena, though, the Gamemakers did much the same thing for me - put this boy in a situation he would never have chosen.

Put me, and my ex-allies, and everyone else in his one escape path.

I ease back. He closes the distance, pushing forward for every inch I give him.

Very brave, and very stupid.

So much like Angel in that respect.

I wonder what my allies will do to him when they find him. But I can't think of that right now. I am probably guaranteeing him a much more terrible death when they do come upon him - at least I could make it fast, could give him that much. One sharp blow to the abdomen, break his neck before it hurts him too much.

Maybe he deserves that much respect, from me.

As I think these thoughts, I keep him far enough back that his bat doesn't pose a serious threat. Wonder how I'm going to extricate myself from this situation without doing something beyond redemption or knowing I'm more or less turning these two over to the wolves.

"Are we at a stalemate?" he demands, which almost makes me laugh.

We're at a stalemate in the sense that I'm at a stalemate with myself. I could kill him without much difficulty. I'm choosing not to.

"We could be at better than a stalemate," I tell him, trying to channel Dion's words from earlier. "I could leave you in peace."

"Sure," he laughs, like I've just suggested he balance his bat on his head as a jaunty hat and do a little dance.

"I'm serious," I say. "I'm done with killing."

"Oh, really?" he says. "Because that was the only interesting thing you had going for you."

 _What_?

I don't say it aloud, but I'm sure my expression betrays my pure confusion, and he's laughing all over again.

"You want this one, Damask? I'm already bored with her," he says to someone behind me.

When I whip around, I'm met with empty swamp, but before I can get back to properly facing him he's _thrown_ the bat squarely at my head, and it hits me full in the jaw, at very least loosening a few of my teeth and filling my mouth with blood.

" _Chinga tu madre_ ," I spit, trying to adjust my stance, but too slow.

Alarmingly fast, too fast for anyone not trained to do this, he closes the distance between us, gets hold of my spear, and tries to wrench it into his own grip, head-butting me hard in my already ringing jaw.

He may be fast, but - this is just stupid. I hold onto my spear even as he knocks me off my feet with the weight of him, and even at my awkward angle, I manage to drive the side of the shaft sharply into his temple. As he flinches back, I hurl myself forward, almost getting my spear over his throat, which, beefy as it is, I know I could crush with a single gesture.

"The fuck?" I demand, as he wrests himself from my grip, rolls to his feet, grabs his bat again.

"You heard what I said," he says, and it's not a snarl - there's humor in his eyes, and I flash back to the Games a year or two ago.

The Games that the villain won. Corsage, the District 1 maniac who liked to skin women, among other things.

"No friends with you?" he asks.

"More than one hunting party in this forest," I lie. "They know I eat dumb _pendejos_ like you for breakfast, and I don't like to share."

He actually laughs.

"Sure," he replies mockingly, then slips into a high-pitched imitation of my accent - "Hey, _hey_ , I'm not gonna hurt you, _little boy_ , calm down~. I'm _done_ with _killing_."

In spite of my position and the blood spilling from between my lips, the slackened burning of my jaw - my eyes nearly roll into the back of my head. One of these.

"Maybe time for a last hurrah, then," I say icily, lowering my spear at him.

"Try me, bitch," he says.

I'm almost ready to do it. Ready to take the worries of the other trainees at face value and just run this boy through. It might be more of a real fight than I thought at first, but my confidence hasn't been shattered.

"Stop," a familiar voice says, and while it aims for intensity, a threat, the boy just sounds terrified.

I'm not falling for this twice, but from my peripheral vision I can see the District 8 boy pointing a black tricked-out y-shaped slingshot at close range at my head.

" _¡Lárgate de aquí, carajo, antes de que te parta los huesos!_ " I spit, knowing it'll sound more like a threat if he can't understand me.

"Samil," he says, and I realize he doesn't seem to be talking to me - pointing the slingshot between the two of us.

At close enough range to do real damage depending on what he has loaded.

"This really the hill you die on, Damask?" Samil asks slowly. "And I mean that. The hill you fucking die on. Drop that thing."

"You said yourself she's not one you _want_. Why do you care so much about this one? She could kill you."

I almost involuntarily nod assent with this voice of reason.

"Please, man," he says. "Don't get stupid. It's a win if we live, okay?"

We all hesitate for a second.

I break the silence first, turning and bolting before the slingshot gets pointed at my head again.

Just like Angel said. I don't stay to see this standoff through. I run. And I don't stop.

It takes a long time for my breathing to slow as I resume my pace, even once I'm confident I'm not being pursued. Another encounter I've been permitted to survive. I may yet prove useful to the faceless people who part the trees before me.

I had wondered if there was anything worse than to be like… them, the trainees who treat a death game like little more than a pivotal football match.

But whether Cora is crazy or Manari is ungodly self-satisfied or Angel has an inferiority complex or Jewel needs attention or Marcus wants to belong, whatever personal flaws led them - us - here, someone taught us this way of life. _Someone_ , a whole Center full of someones, taught me that I should have killed both those boys without a second thought from the moment I laid eyes on them.

That's a kind of evil, being taught that and never finding the humanity to question it. And it feels like too little, too late, for me.

Some people, though - I mean, is it worse to come to that same conclusion as the trainees on your own? What had to happen to him? What had to happen to _them_?

My jaw still feels like it's splitting open - I have the feeling that once I slow down and really take stock of the damage, I'll be short a molar or two. The pulsing heat in my face reminds me just how much worse that encounter could have gone.

And here I was, ready to reach out an olive branch to a boy I thought was drowning, like me. Am I the only one so entirely directionless? Being herded from place to place at the whims of the Gamemakers?

Without meaning to, I feel a pang of sympathy for Jewel and Cora - what that boy will do to them if he finds them.

It gives me real pause, thinking how they've been set up as tragic victims in a way I can't be, not being anything that anyone particularly cares for. They have partners to avenge them and a district to call for the blood of Samil from District 10.

I haven't got either of those things. My own fault. But it may just have saved me.

It would be better, more tolerable to leave him behind, if the villain never won, but just two years ago, that absolute demon of a man from One, Corsage… I had to turn off the television in the front room for all of the screaming.

They showed every second of it. The slowest in the finale, when he faced some poor luckless outer-district boy whose district partner he'd absolutely savaged. For her death, they'd had to cut away, at least in what they showed the districts, at the end. But you could guess what he did to her - and he killed her partner, too, dragged it out over an hour. Didn't stop at skinning him. The corpse didn't even look like a human.

That finale was mandatory viewing.

So I don't have hope that this evil will go unrewarded.

It used to be my fear that I'd see it emerge at full force in one of my allies, but...

My hope, at the moment, is to live from one second to the next, that my jaw is not mangled beyond repair, that I've picked up enough skill with the limited first aid kit to piece myself back together.

No more alliances, I guess. Fool me once. I don't hold out hope that I'll be allowed to do any good for anyone with what's left of my life - watch them sacrifice my dignity as easily as they did my teeth!

The barest hope for something better for my parents keeps me landing on one foot, extending the other. If I do what I'm told, perhaps they'll let me go more cleanly, won't force them to watch me scream like the victims of that monster from District 1. The stipend grows marginally with every minute I stay alive.

If that's all I'm good for, I'll take it. I'll take it. I'll take it for as long as they'll let me.

With these heavy thoughts, I continue to run into the darkening forest, carrying what little I have left on my back and in my heart.

x

 _Merry Christmas to any who celebrate, I'm back._


	52. An Intervention

An Intervention

x

Politics is a slug copulating in a Poughkeepsie garden.  
Politics is a grain of rice stuck in the mouth of a king.

'Exquisite Politics', Denise Duhamel

x

President Margaret Lancaster, The Capitol

"Well, here they are," Cornelia Wiltshire announced, shepherding the President into a binder-stacked disaster zone of a room in a building that must have been recently refurbished post-Rebellion.

Perhaps it was even one of those residences that had seen combat, judging by the undertones of acrid soot and what might be a whiff of spent napalm beneath a hasty paint job and cheap carpeting.

Despite the late hour, three heads bobbed up from blue holo-screens or enormous stacks of paper.

"The stacks are mostly petitions," Wiltshire explained, answering the immediate question of how in the hell someone obtained that much paper in the highly digitized Capitol. "We find recruitment goes better and sticks longer when you put a real pen in someone's hand and make them see the weight of what they're signing."

"Ah," Lancaster murmured, still taking in the dull fluorescent lights and cheap wall decorations - mostly pro-Wiltshire campaign banners and a few framed pictures that spoke to her more notable accomplishments.

A black-and-white photo of Wiltshire receiving a military award, a more recent architect's depiction of the hospital in District 9, a letter of gratitude from Mayor Jeffords of District 11.

On sum, the campaign office was far short of the hyper-efficient machine she'd hoped to gain access to through her reluctant compromise.

She would issue a declaration that the Games would be brought to a close. Within a year, she'd take the first step to set it into motion.

For this?

Held together with shoestrings and bubblegum, practically - Lancaster was certain this office kept Cornelia winning elections through pure luck and, perhaps, the pity it inspired.

 _Fluorescent lights_ , for the love of goodness.

"Marina, if you please?" Wiltshire announced. "Tell the President what we do here."

A young woman - authentically young, it seemed, no more than late-twenties - stood, in an ill-fitting grey suit and hair that looked hardly brushed.

 _Good to see Wiltshire's team follows the general dress code set by their fearless leader_ , the President noted, struggling to veil her disdain.

"I'm Marina Trevino, Ms. President," the young woman announced with a polite half-bow. "This is _my_ team, I run this central post. We're in the business of winning elections, and I don't know what Ms. Wiltshire's promised you, but I can tell you right now - I've never served on a losing campaign."

"Did Cornelia rob you straight from your cradle?" President Lancaster asked skeptically.

"No, Ms. President, recruited from graduate studies at your alma mater. Politics agrees with me more than academia," Marina Trevino explained. "Most of the old men in politics are dead. More room for me."

"A healthy attitude," the President sighed.

Not a bad university, though.

"With all respect, my results speak for themselves. We've also got Simone Wood, who joined us out of retirement - she was a statistician back in the day, and now she volunteers here."

An older woman waved distractedly from behind a holo screen, only briefly diverted from her calculations.

"Charmed," President Lancaster said, trying not to grind her teeth too obviously.

"And over there you've got Marshal Joyner, who does most of our Capitol youth outreach. He's a high school volunteer. I'm pretty sure he's not legally supposed to be working this late, but his parents seem to be okay with it and he basically lives here."

A wealthy-looking - suspiciously smooth and well-groomed, but otherwise not apparently altered beyond the suggestion that his parents could afford a full-body polish every few years - young redheaded man bounced up from his desk to bow far too deeply.

"That's our team at…" Marina glanced at an archaic wall-mounted digital clock. "At 11:45 on a Tuesday night. We have a small army of volunteers, and this is just the central outpost. There's others wherever we can afford property or, frankly, wherever our teenage volunteers have sympathetic parents."

"Alright, thank you, Marina," Wiltshire said. "Now, I'm sure you'll all be getting home soon, but if you could spare a few minutes for the President, I would like you to… dazzle her."

Marina half-saluted.

"I'll be getting off, then - without saying too much before too many ears, it's been a productive evening, President. I think you'll feel far more hopeful once you've better acquainted yourself with the resources here. Marina is a real gem - as are all of our volunteers."

Cornelia Wiltshire bowed - notably, to her team before the President - and finally took her leave.

"We have a meeting room, Ms. President," Marina announced. "It's not much, but I'd be happy to speak with you there. Marshal, for fuck's sake, _please_ go home before your parents call in the Peacekeepers to track you down."

The President nodded curtly and - as the young man hurried out - followed Marina to a flimsy door that opened to a matchstick table and a collection of folding chairs.

"Can we speak freely?" she asked once the door had been closed.

"Yes," Marina reassured her. "Simone is mostly deaf and our strategy relies on well-kept information. Nothing is bugged."

Lancaster cleared her throat.

"You must be confused about this… interruption, at this late hour," she began, still finding herself glancing nervously around the room - a habit from before cameras could be made smaller than a grain of sand.

"Well, yes," Marina laughed. "It's not every day you meet the President of Panem. But it must be big, and I love a challenge, so - fire away."

"I'll be moving forward with my campaign this year with Ms. Wiltshire's explicit endorsement and full access to her team, resources, and databases," the President explained. "Though based on your main field office, I'll be frank - I've seen better-resourced _toddlers_ in the upper echelons of the Capitol."

"Just one of our challenges," the young woman said, waving the comment away. "Now, that's offering a lot, actually. What have you promised her?"

"If you can't guess," the President said frostily, "you're not as well-informed as you think."

Marina broke into a grin.

"It's the Games, isn't it? Oh wow."

"Don't cheer yet," Lancaster warned her sternly. "My ability to end them relies on my maintaining power, and Lorca seems to have been openly endorsed by… the entire Capitolist faction of Parliament, and he's not even running yet, heaven help me."

Entirely ignoring her cautionary tone, Marina looked about ready to stand up from her cheap folding chair and dance.

" _Ending_ them?" she asked. "Incredible. Better than we could have hoped. You're really freaked out by this Lorca guy, and rightly, of course. But you came to the right place. Oh man. This is so cool."

Lancaster massaged her temples, feeling the last of the caffeine from her tea with Wiltshire beginning to wear off.

"Please, if you're going to demonstrate your usefulness, do it quickly. On the trip over, Cornelia built you up as my future campaign manager. I'm getting much more the impression of an overeager intern."

"Sorry," Marina said, still seemingly nonplussed, her smile not dimmed a single watt. "I… well, the Games are an underappreciated topic. Partly because it used to be anyone who got too interested got murdered, but, well - it's different, now. So much is different, now. There's a lot I admire about you, Ms. President."

"I _truly_ don't care what you think of me if you can show me a path by which I can both win this election and end the Games."

"And I can! Two prongs - first, you need to be the kind of candidate that wins. At the same time, we'll get an initiative underway to discredit the Games as an institution. As with a pincer maneuver, the two objectives intertwine at the end - on completion, ending the Games will simply reaffirm your credibility and, of course, electability."

"Easier said than done," the President sighed.

"Not easily said, unless by someone who knows what they're talking about," Marina countered. "You need to stand for something - we'll start by wholly reevaluating your message, and that may involve some cosmetic changes to the way you interact with the public, too."

"Again, so much easier said than done! I've been in the public eye exactly as I am for decades," the President insisted.

Marina seemed to be waiting for her to finish the statement - to refuse the proposition flatly, to shut the whole thing down. But she had no such inclination. In fact, she was of the mind to listen further to this idea, provided the young woman could rationalize it beyond a vague appeal to aesthetics.

"Well," she began, seeing that the President's objection ended there, "If you really see yourself at the helm of this nation for years to come - as anything but a stopgap between leaders - you need a new message. To represent something more than a return to the past. We've already pretty much gotten as close to the past as _you_ want us to get. The only way to get _closer_ to the past involves Lorca sipping poison in a crown of roses. You're running on a platform you've already fulfilled, and no one is satisfied with that. You need to think bigger. Align yourself with something positive, new, _exciting_. Playing it safe is playing to lose in the Capitol."

"The tall poppy gets cut down," Lancaster said quietly.

"Not if the tall poppy is the all-powerful beloved President of Panem. Then the tall poppy does the cutting. The tall poppy takes Lorca down and the Capitolist faction down with him. The tall poppy… is this analogy working? I feel like it's not working. Anyway, if you pull this off well enough, you could practically kill him yourself and walk away unblemished. Because they'll love you. Not like they used to - more."

"I don't like this direction," the President declared abruptly. "This is precisely what I don't want. Do you think I've held back from… what, poisoning my enemies, slitting their throats over private dinners, donning a white suit and prancing about as though I'm the reincarnation of some Greco-Roman sociopath… because I'm weak? Because I _couldn't_ do it? I have a playbook. I act with restraint, I win elections on merit, and I am _not_ a dictator. Gentle but firm. A silk glove over a steel fist."

"Your fist isn't steel, Ms. President, it's clay. Who's your greatest opponent?"

"Lorca."

"In parliament."

She had to pause for a second to think - the Capitolist coalition, so adamant about the natural order which placed certain citizens inherently above others, was eternally at odds with her and whatever party she happened to be working with on any given day. Lovelia Catesby, the current coalition chair, was as snakelike as her satiny green augmented skin would suggest. If anyone in parliament would personally like to see her dead, it would be Lovelia. Or Elisheba Rivers - who was more in Cornelia Wiltshire's camp when it came to policy, but seemed to harbor an intense dislike of the President that led her to scupper more than one important deal for what amounted to little more than a personal vendetta.

"You've already taken too long to answer that question," Marina interrupted, before the President could decide on a response. "If there's a list, have a list. Know who your enemies are."

"And I suppose you'd have me _surveil_ them too, so I'd know exactly where Lovelia Catesby has brunch every morning and what bile she spills over her mimosas," the President replied, a bit acerbically, not accustomed to insubordination by someone more-or-less interviewing for a job.

"That was what I was going to suggest, yes. You've inherited extensive surveillance infrastructure and you're barely using a fraction of it."

"I _inherited_ it for a reason. Its architect was executed in front of a cheering throng."

"After maintaining power for what, six decades? Snow was a tyrant, yes, we _know_. I would rather not see you go the same way, in policy or in… ending. You seem convinced that you're different than him, and _while I'm working for you_ , that's good enough for me. It would suit you, though, to learn from his administration - not just its downfall, but its successes."

"I _have_ learned! He was right about one thing - the Capitol loves blood. I brought back the Games to placate them while I rebuilt the districts, found a way to make the Games do what I wanted them to do. _There's no rebellion in sight_. Production of everything from food to fine jewelry has only increased. And now Wiltshire and you with her would have me end the Games, and I understand why, and I'm _trying_ to reconcile what I must do to hold the Capitol with what your camp demands. You need to give me something else - Cornelia's plan's shortfall is that it wins me the districts but loses me the Capitol, and I'm not just the President of the _goddamn districts_!"

Marina held her palms up in a gesture of surrender.

"I'm trying to do exactly to that. Help you have your country and rule it too."

"You say that. I hear you say that. But _how_."

"Well, for the other prong of the plan - make them hate the Games, or at least provoke their outrage. It's been done before. It was how the Mockingjay Rebellion spread to the Capitol. Show them _something_ evil about the institution. Don't tip your hand - tip someone else's hand. The Capitol loves blood, but it also loves scandal, it loves the victors, it loves to feel superior. That's going to be the key to ending this in a manner satisfactory to both our camps."

"There will have to be a patsy, and I will not be made the patsy," Lancaster insisted. "These things don't happen without a scapegoat. But you're right, back then they _did_ turn on Snow, superficially but _enough_ , when he threatened their victors and showed the extent of his meddling."

"It instigated change, didn't it?"

"As a model, I'm not arguing with you. I was eventually the beneficiary of that shake-up, after all. But convincing them 'the Games are evil', assuming that's even possible, merely leads to the conclusion that _I_ am evil."

Marina paused for a moment, seemingly mulling over the President's objections.

"You're right," she finally said. "But it doesn't need to be that general. President Snow always had someone to take the blame, up until the 'blame' became a clear and absolute indictment of him and his administration. And who was that, when the Games went wrong?"

The President's throat went dry.

"The Gamemakers."

"The Head Gamemaker. Seneca Crane, Thilo Flynn before him…" Marina listed off names on her fingers. "Hell, Plutarch Heavensbee didn't last long once the military took the Capitol back. They knew what they were signing up for."

"Absolutely out of the question. Annia is among my oldest friends, she's done nothing but what I've asked of her, she…"

Annia was, perhaps, her last bridge between who she used to be and who she had become. She was good at her job, a talented media producer - but what did an ousted Head Gamemaker ever do besides sink into obscurity and die?

And she was, of course, her _friend_. Maybe her only friend.

"I'm not telling you to have her executed, President," Marina argued. "I understand there's… baggage, there, but… this is why you don't keep your friends closer than your enemies. Better to remedy that issue as soon as possible."

Remedy that. 'Remedy' was such an innocent verb, but Annia was not an illness. She was the only good part of all of this.

"Suppose I did… what you're suggesting," the President began stiltedly. "How would I do it?"

"Simple," Marina said shortly. "How does the mainstream Capitol connect to the Games? Sponsorship, betting, and then the adoration of the victors. Knock those pillars out from under her. She's rigged the sponsorships, undermined the 'natural odds' egregiously, and abused the victors in her care."

"But she _couldn't_ be personally responsible for any of that," the President pleaded. "It's simply not her job. Couldn't we point the finger at someone else?"

"Short answer, no. They knew Seneca Crane's name and his face and his ridiculous beard, and that was how Snow trapped him. It must be the fault of someone they recognize, or it's yours."

The President made a valiant effort to maintain her posture, convinced, at the very least, that there must be some better way down the line. A brainstorming session was not the end of the discussion. It couldn't be.

"Thinking on that, I mean, half of what we'd need to rile them up is probably true - I've always wondered, how many of the gifts come from the Gamemakers? What economist came up with the gift-cost system? It seems to change constantly. Has Annia settled on a victor yet? Have you?"

"It's not her fault," Lancaster repeated.

"Is that a 'no' on the 'decided on a victor' thing? I'm rooting for Fidan," Marina interrupted.

"... _really_?" she demanded, appalled at this woman's unbelievable sense of timing.

"What? She's very compelling!"

The President could only stare at the young woman in the ill-fitting suit - did she sleep in it? Could that be why it was so badly wrinkled?

"Look, I'm not a saint. You get a lot of those in Cornelia Wiltshire's field team, but I'm not one of them. She wants to see the Games end, and I'll put my all into ending them as long as I'm on the clock and she's signing my paychecks. In my spare time… I think they're good, raw, _real_ media, and I'd much rather give Annia my compliments on her work than throw her under the bus."

"Ms. Trevino," the President said sharply, "You've given me a lot to think about."

"I'd hope so," she replied. "I'm the best you'll find. Put your name on my paychecks and I'll win this election for you."

"At what cost?" Lancaster sighed in abject exasperation.

"No higher cost than the penalty to your losing," Marina explained, smiling thinly. "I'm old enough to remember the purges of the Mockingjay Rebellion. I've studied those records and those from Snow's takeover. So many old Capitol bloodlines disappear with each regime change. Annia will be killed just as surely as you will, as Cornelia will, as I may be along with her, if you lose."

"I don't know what to say," she admitted.

"Say yes!"

Marina seemed far too excited at the prospect of this campaign. Just another adventure to her, putting Annia's life in the balance - hopefully not Lancaster's with it.

"If I do, now, what does that mean, moving forward?" Lancaster asked, still guarded.

"Well, once I know you're a lock, I have something that will just about make your week. Even if you've had a very good week," Marina explained.

"I _haven't_ ," the President snapped. "Fine. I don't have another choice and you know that. Out with it."

"The Head Gamemaker must be a scapegoat, but she won't need to be the only one. We have something real on Lorca - something that just might stick. Even to him," the young woman declared proudly.

"He's a draft-dodging tax-evading scam-operating new-money fake-suited barely-educated mouth-breathing secretary-groping tactless warmongering son of a bitch and he rises in the polls with each accusation," President Lancaster argued, tone dripping with resentment. "What do you have - tape of him cavorting with prostitutes? At this point, anything short of being caught in the act… just, nothing surprises his base. Or else it's my fault. Lying Lancaster. That's his out. Every time."

"Better. So much better."

Marina could barely contain her delight - bouncing in the flimsy folding chair so much that Lancaster wondered if the thing would break.

"His father was big, up until… well, right around the Mockingjay Rebellion," Lancaster's new campaign manager announced. "Richard Lorca the elder was targeted very quickly when the rebels took the Capitol, though his family was airlifted to safety - we still don't know where they hid out, but clearly they made it back. Lorca Senior, though… of _course_ they executed him first, oh, Ms. President, it's _so_ much worse than prostitutes."

"You're enjoying this," the President observed.

"Because I love to win, and this is a trump card," Marina declared with a grin. "He bought _victors_. And the best part is… well, it's impossible to tell who he bought them _for_! But between a ninety year old man with a heart condition and his one recently divorced mid-fifties heir, now running for President of Panem… Ms. President, you know what this means."

"That sort of thing _doesn't happen_ anymore," Lancaster said sharply. "And you know he'll deny it until the ends of the earth. It means nothing if it comes from my camp, twenty years too late…"

"It's the truth, though," Marina replied. "And the truth is always there, waiting to be useful. I'll find a way. You're making the right call, Ms. President. I'm the best choice you've ever made. I don't lose elections."

"Heaven help me."

"And one more thing - you'll have to hold back on telling Annia about… well, any of this. I know it won't be easy, Ms. President, but I really believe she's the lynchpin of this operation. Come to peace with what must happen."

"I understand," the President sighed, feeling about a hundred years old.

Further removed from her idealistic past than she'd ever been before.

"I'll need an office," Marina added. "A real one."

"You'll have whatever you want," she murmured.

"You won't regret this!" the young woman repeated again, practically vibrating with energy - as though she'd somehow sucked the life out of the room, and Lancaster with it.

 _I already do_ , the President thought. _God help me. Heaven help me._

But it seemed the only person that could help her now was wearing an oversized pantsuit and knockoff pumps, readying herself to rip the last semblance of familiarity or friendship from the President's life.

Wiltshire had been right, though. Beneath the seething mass of dread, for the first time in a long time, Lancaster felt a prickle of hope about the election.

She would not be going quietly to the gallows after all.


	53. Day 3: Into the Storm

Day 3: Into the Storm

x

A thousand martyrs I have made,  
All sacrific'd to my desire;

A thousand beauties have betray'd,  
That languish in resistless fire.

'A Thousand Martyrs I Have Made', Aphra Behn

x

Statice Lawson, District 11

"Damn it," Yuna mutters for the twentieth time, nearly tripping over yet another exposed root.

"Sorry," Fidan replies softly.

As though it's _her_ fault we're on the ground in the swamp rather than swinging through the trees like orchard girls.

The mud that we used to coat our skin last night has mostly rubbed off by now, but I feel gross and ashy and damp in a way that I wasn't expecting. Nothing gets dry in this sort of climate, just gets hotter and wetter and clingier with every passing day.

We haven't found the water hemlock, yet, which is stressing Yuna out a lot, because she's convinced that if the Gamemakers were going to let her poison anyone, they'd just hand it to her straightaway. I'm less sure on that front, but I'm not going to argue with her anymore about the Games - we've hit a whole lot of tension on that topic, and it makes Fidan jumpy, and I'm not about to be the one who messes up this alliance for good.

Sometimes, though, having a mission is enough - especially if there's someone else doing something interesting.

"This is insane," Yuna declares, stopping short, nearly causing me to collide with her as the thick mud makes in hard to break the inertia of walking forward. "It's useless. Fidan, don't you think we should have found it by now?"

"Well," Fidan says hesitantly. "If it was normal swamp, I'd say you were right. But just remember it's not normal. Could be there's somewhere we're supposed to go."

"Nothing's stopping us from searching," I suggest. "Seems like a good bet to keep moving forward, since we're not running into any trouble."

Admittedly, I would like nothing more than to wash myself somewhere other than the murky water that swills around our ankles as we get deeper into the swamp, but I don't want to be the one to suggest we break mission, since… well, we shouldn't take it for granted, that we're not being torn apart by leather-skinned ground-lizard mutts or set on fire or being … I dunno, any other of the absolute cavalcade of horrors that could be thrown at us, for failing to be entertaining enough.

It makes me think we're exactly where we're supposed to be, which is worrying in its own right, for what it means for the _future_. But things are gonna happen when they happen, and if we play along with what's expected of us…

I dunno. I'm starting to question the idea that there's any way to actually gain the Gamemakers' goodwill. Your mind starts to play tricks on you in here - putting meaning to things that are probably meaningless, like finding a patch of the beggarticks that we've been sort of grazing on. That seems like a gift, right? Like a reward for something?

But sometimes leaves are leaves.

At least we're not in any danger of starving - Fidan keeps finding little odds and ends that she confirms are edible, and since we're actively _looking_ for the poison, if I found it accidentally and died, I think that'd actually make Yuna's day.

Yuna, as if I've willed it with my thoughts, trips on another root and curses.

"You okay?" Fidan asks.

"Sorry," she sighs. "I'm just… ugh. I'm sorry, I'm the one who should be sorry. Can we stop for a bit?"

Fidan glances at me, and I shrug and nod from beneath my sheen of sweat and mud.

"Want to find a tree, or keep looking for a spot of dry ground?" she offers, turning back to Yuna.

"If we find a big enough oak, couldn't we sit on the roots?" Yuna suggests. "Not forever, just long enough to reevaluate the plan."

Oh. Fidan - I'm pretty sure - hates 'the plan', and she perks up visibly as Yuna mentions changing it even slightly. I think Fidan would be perfectly content to live out the rest of her natural life in the arena, springing about in the treetops and living off snippets of edible plants and insects. She'd gotten even twitchier, if that's possible, with all Yuna's talk of taking initiative and going after the trainees before they can get us.

There's this sense, though maybe it's just what I'm picking up, that Yuna is protecting herself with this about-face, turning the three of us into offensive players rather than running. And I guess… I guess I understand her anger. Jean, and Dasheen after her - I can still see them, still remember them, Jean's fear and Dasheen's idiotic bravery.

Her idiotic bravery that saved my life.

People have already died for me. No one's died for Yuna and Fidan to be here. But while Fidan is so careful about everything, Yuna's frustration with our circumstances is palpable and I hope it's not making her reckless.

She expects more than this, from the world - more than what Dasheen got out of the arena, a quick death after a moment of the spotlight. More than Jean. Maybe she's right, and she _is_ better than them, somehow. Deserves better.

But I don't know.

Mostly I just want to get this mud off my skin and have a moment to catch my breath.

"Hey, here we go," Yuna announces, gesturing at a massive oak, the branches of which would be too high to easily reach.

Its black, gnarled roots stretch out around the base of the tree like a wreath, offering some dry-ish respite from the sodden ground.

"Good eye," I comment, not having been paying much attention to our surroundings myself.

I need to work on that. This is life or death.

Some moments, though, it doesn't feel so urgent - the sweltering air is every inch the feeling of a summer out in the orchards back home in District 11. I even recognize some of the insects, though I only know their colloquial names. The important ones to know are orchard pests, and believe it or not, I'm not seeing many citrus psyllids in the swamp forest.

In feeling and in sounds and smells, I could almost be on some kind of field trip back home, and that's disarming, because I'm clearly not, and that headspace may just be the death of me if I'm not careful.

We find a good resting spot beneath the oak, and Yuna passes around our second to last bottle of water to be emptied. There's an unspoken flicker of worry that passes between us with the recognition that we may be close to running dry unless we attract the interest of some sponsors soon.

"So, what's the move?" Fidan asks quietly, her undercurrent of enthusiasm stifled slightly by the circumstances.

"I've been thinking about how exactly to do it, since… Statice, you said it didn't look like they had a water source beyond the Cornucopia, right?"

"Right," I agree. "Unless they're drinking out of the ocean, but I don't think you can do that - it's so salty, and the whole point of hydration is osmoregu-"

"We all know about osmoregulation," Yuna says impatiently. "How visible were their stocks of water, from where you were?"

Fidan looks like she's never heard the word 'osmoregulation' before in her life, but keeps her mouth shut anyway. I think Yuna forgets sometimes how different Fidan's education has been from ours. She seems so bright, and you'd expect her to know these sorts of things, but then she just… doesn't.

Things have changed so much in District 11, since reconstruction, and I assumed it was at least sort of like that everywhere.

"It was kinda just neatly stacked bottles, varying sizes, inside the Cornucopia," I say. "There's tents set up as obstacles to the mouth, and everything important is kinda packed inside. That's all I saw before the two Careers from District 1, and then I booked it."

Yuna nods, seemingly in sympathy. My anger at those two is the only thing she particularly likes about me.

"Here's what I'm thinking. The 'bottleneck' as it were that we can most easily exploit in their supply chain is pretty clearly the single-resource method by which they're obtaining water. Some years it's a stream, this year it's a pile of bottles. And if they're drinking one at a time, that limits the resources we have to expend to do maximum damage."

She's using a voice similar to Fidan's storytelling voice - as close as she can get, because Yuna's voice lends itself better to sarcastic quips and asides. She's not especially expressive as a baseline, but she's really making an effort.

With a private smile, I realize that she's taking a page out of my playbook - awareness of patterns in past Games. She knows this is a moment the Gamemakers will show in full, will repeat in clips to build tension, spliced with footage of the Careers' camp and their vulnerable water supply. She's giving them exactly what they want.

She can call me whatever she wants for my willingness to work with what I imagine they want to preserve my own life, but I have, at very least, this moment of smugness as she does the same thing. Hypocrite.

"We poison one bottle of water," she says. "One of ours. It's a sacrifice, but in the best case scenario, they pour cups, make a toast - five dead trainees. Worst case scenario… only one."

"Not bad outcomes," I say appreciatively.

"Not bad at all. A good first step," she replies. "And it's low risk - lower risk than charging at them with one knife between us. Only takes one to toss the poisoned bottle in and one of us for a mild distraction."

"Brilliant, so it's a two-person plan for a three-person team," I reply, a little skeptical, now.

"Works better with three," she says, shrugging. "But who knows what'll happen before we find the poison? It's the third day."

"Yeah, who knows?" I sigh.

Fidan has been conspicuously silent throughout the presentation. I glance over at her to try to get a read on how she's feeling about the whole thing. Yuna seems to have the same idea.

"That's a lot of threes," I comment. "In District 11, we have a saying - the sort of thing you tell a child to repeat to judge their articulation - 'citrus trees green in threes'."

"Huh?"

"Third day, three allies - it's bad luck," I say. "Trouble comes in threes."

"Why citrus trees?" Fidan asks, finally.

"Well, I think the basis of the rhyme is to remind you about how fast citrus greening can spread. You have to purge the affected trees fast, and it's never just one."

"That's funny," she replies thoughtfully. "Threes are good things in District Seven. You see triangles a lot in construction. It's a strong number."

I shrug.

"Just a superstition. Third day of the Games is usually not a good day. Alliances of three aren't as strong as alliances of two. Three trainee districts, y'know..."

"Well, let's try extra hard not to die," Yuna suggests brusquely. "And let's keep looking for water hemlock."

Now that we have a plan, the mission almost seems more urgent. This is a make or break moment. If Yuna has sold the Gamemakers on her vision, then we won't be searching fruitlessly for much longer. If they're not sold, if it doesn't fit with what they want, we're as good as meat to them in a shrinking field of tributes. And we won't find the plant any time soon.

"Back up and at it?" I suggest.

"My schedule's clear for the rest of the day," Yuna sighs. "Let's go."

Fidan hops lightly to her feet as Yuna and I stand laboriously, sore and creaky and itching with the mud that still clings to our faces and bodies. She scales the first climbable tree she finds and begins to search ahead of us, the sound of branches swaying in response to her weight charting a path.

The brief rest makes it easier to focus as we direct our search, once again, further into the swamp forest. The mud thickens, turns wetter until after about fifteen minutes, water is swilling around my ankles with every step. Though the trees are darker and thicker here, the path is relatively unobstructed. It's easy enough to follow Fidan from the ground as she ensures that whatever waits ahead is safe and seems favorable based on the conditions Yuna described.

When the water is midway up my calves, I hear her shout in surprise up ahead and freeze. Yuna, beside me, does the same thing.

"Guys!" she calls, sounding almost frantic.

There's a sound of more rustling as she shimmies down a branch and drops delicately into the water from a few feet ahead. The tree cover is too thick to see much further forward.

"What is it?" Yuna hisses.

Fidan is the one carrying the knife. She must feel vulnerable, and rightly so. I can scarcely will my body to move.

"Come with me. It's not a tribute. But it's dangerous. And might be useful."

We follow her carefully through the thick maze of trunks, darkened by moisture and humidity - then come abruptly to a clearing, where the water around our feet is not so deep.

In the center of the small break in the trees, about twelve feet in diameter, a single tree, split into many trunks, stands alone. Where the trunks converge and its roots meet the ground, saturated but still above-water sandy soil supports the massive tree.

What's notable about the clearing, beyond the single tree, is that the entire area is dotted with fallen round green fruits about the size of Fidan's small fist. They float innocently in the tepid water and layer the ground around the tree as though it's stood here for decades.

I try to enter the clearing to get a better look, but Fidan's arm shoots out and grabs me by the shoulder.

"Don't!" She insists. "This - this can only be a manchineel. Don't even breathe too much. Stay back."

Yuna's eyes are so wide and round that they look like circles set in her face.

"This is… the poison tree you were talking about," she says slowly.

"Yeah," Fidan says urgently. "So stay clear. It'll burn your skin off."

"The fruit?" Yuna asks.

"All of it. Every part of it's terrible poison. Poisons they don't even know the names of because you can't study them, because if you get close you die."

Yuna raises a skeptical eyebrow.

"Give me your knife," she says.

Fidan looks openly horrified.

"No," she says quietly.

"The plan works with two people," Yuna insists. "Give me your knife."

" _No_ ," Fidan repeats. "I won't let you die for this. We'll find water hemlock, like you said. _Please_ , Yuna, don't be stupid."

"Then I'll do it with my bare hands."

Fidan gives her this look, like she's in physical pain - glances at me pleadingly, like I'm somehow going to talk sense to her.

"Here," I suggest, pulling one of the barely-empty bottles of water we've been saving out of my bag.

It has a few drops rolling around in the bottom.

I rip one of the pockets off my loose pants with some effort and moisten it with the last dregs of the water.

"This might help protect your lungs," I suggest. "I don't know what kind of poison you're working with, but it'll be at least a little barrier."

Yuna nods curtly, accepting the piece of cloth.

"Knife, Fidan?" she asks, one last time.

Reluctantly, Fidan hands her the blade.

Face covered and knife in hand, Yuna approaches the tree, wading through the floating masses of fruits to approach it. She walks right up to the converging trunks and, suddenly, slices into the bark with the blade.

She's blinking a lot, and I see her wince as if something has happened - or in anticipation of something happening. Just a millisecond too slowly to be a result of the blow, water - accumulated from the rainstorm on the first day or the humidity or just the Gamemakers' design - showers down on her.

Fidan, beside me, squeaks in fear.

Yuna holds her ground, not even shaking her head to get her damp hair out of her eyes.

Milky sap oozes from the gouge in the tree, and she slowly coats the blade in it, looking shaky on her feet, now.

Turning, she spears a small green fruit from one of the heavy boughs with the tip of the knife, and stumbles back towards us.

As she gets closer, I can see tears streaming down her face as the little fruits bob around her feet with every step. I try to move to help her once she's clear, but Fidan pulls me back again.

"Look at her," she warns me.

The parts of Yuna's face not shielded by mud are burning an angry red. Fluid and mucus stream from her eyes and nose. Her eyes, in spite of their tears, are bloodshot and red.

"Don't let it get on you," she warns me. "Yuna, don't panic. We're going to get to the beach and get you cleaned off. We're far enough away from the Cornucopia that we'll be able to get in and out without being seen, okay? Don't touch anything."

In spite of it all, Yuna smiles like she's just won the lottery, though I can see it's agony for her.

Fidan quickly scales a tree to assess the position of the sun and get us moving west, towards the beach, leaving me and Yuna alone.

"That was insane," I tell her.

"Yeah," she rasps, entirely unable to disguise her pride. "The cloth helped."

Her hand, with which she held it to her face, is entirely red, and breaking out in ulcerous lesions.

"I got the fruit," she says.

"I saw that."

"We're gonna kill them."

"Hell yeah we are," I say, finally letting myself actually feel the second of hope that I've been suppressing.

That maybe we can pull this off.

Maybe Dasheen didn't die for nothing. Maybe I can… maybe I can make them pay for what they did to her.

Maybe it's gonna be like Cereus said - we have a shot. Not a big one, not a good one, but a chance.

Fidan swings back down with a splash, looking nervous.

"We're not too far. Maybe the salt water will help - oh, Yuna, _why_ did you have to be brave?"

As Yuna smiles even more broadly in reply, the blistering skin around her mouth cracks and begins to seep blood.

"Because," she says, though her voice sounds like a saw through wood, "the upper hand may look like a poison fruit on a knife, but _we_ have it, now."

I think we're starting to understand each other better - the contract with the Gamemakers, the necessity for broad strokes, grand moves. Just how little we mean if we don't do something big. In a way, Yuna and I are in among the most precarious situations in the arena, thanks to our profound lack of physical skill. Fidan, at least, can always count on her ability to run away.

Yuna has gained a lot of my respect as the skin peels from her face.

Though she winces like she's walking on daggers as Fidan guides us through the forest, she carries herself like she's back in the chariots in the main square.

By the time we make it through the water, to drier land, can feel the sea breeze through the vegetation, I'm starting to feel my skin crawl, notice raised bumps on my hands and arms. Fidan is scratching at her face, which is dotted with pink hives. We don't look nearly as bad as Yuna, who still clutches the blade impaling the single retrieved fruit, but we all need a chance to clean off, badly, before the irritation gets worse.

Though it feels like it takes forever, we break through the tree cover as the sun hangs overhead - indicating it's probably around three or four in the afternoon. Sweat runs down my back and mixes with the mud and the poisoned-air-residue from the tree.

"I hope we can find that tree again," Yuna says, though her voice is barely more than a whisper.

"I don't," Fidan says shortly. "I don't want to die like that. I don't want to see you die like that. Okay? Just a little further."

She's practically supporting Yuna's weight as we walk, as she has been for what feels like miles.

The sodden grey sand of the beach is unpleasant under my sneakers, but it beats the swamp forest by a long shot. I'm itching all over, and not just because of the manchineel tree. Three days worth of sweat and grime clings to my skin. The slight breeze sweeping in from over the ocean promises that the water may be slightly cooler than the ambient air, which feels like hot plastic wrap on my face.

Relief is finally in sight.

"Be careful," Fidan warns me as I pull ahead, approaching the water. "Mutts."

"You see anything?" I ask doubtfully, too desperate to get my body in those waves to worry.

"No, but please be careful. I… I can't… help you when I'm taking care of Yuna, okay?"

"You don't need to help me all the time, Fidan," I reassure her. "Really, I hope you know that. You're my friend, okay? Once I clean off I'll help Yuna and you can take care of yourself."

She nods reluctantly, watching me as I continue forward, faster than she can while bearing two bodies on one set of legs.

"Don't drown," Yuna suggests sardonically.

At least she's not so badly injured she's forgotten who she is.

Fidan is right to be cautious about the water. I wade in slowly to the crashing surf, though every inch of me is begging to dive in face first. There's plenty of opportunities to swim in District 11 - especially since, before the Rebellion, there were so many incidences of children drowning as they played by the reservoir. Now most of the new schools have swimming facilities attached, and you have to learn basic strokes to graduate, with yearly contests and other events to encourage skill and strength along with field days.

So even though I've never been in this kind of water, and I was never first in any kind of athletic competition, I'm a pretty strong swimmer.

The waves, though they're menacing and opaque grey further out, crash to shards of foam and rushes of water - clearer than anything in the swamp - by the time they reach my feet.

It's pretty blissful, splashing cool water on myself after three days of stewing in pure misery.

As I start to wade deeper, though, paying attention to my surroundings, I see, from my peripheral vision, that Fidan is struggling more than she let on, trying to avoid touching Yuna, hurting Yuna, or letting either of them fall in the treacherous wet sand of the beach.

These are my _allies_. It's time I acted like it.

"Hey," I call, slogging back through the surf, pulling the empty bottle again from my bag and filling it with sea water. "If she's good to sit, don't worry about helping her the whole way. I'll start washing her off and getting a read on the damage."

As I get closer, even through my sea-spray clouded glasses, I can see that where Fidan has touched Yuna with her bare hands, bright red lesions have sprung up on her fingers and palms. She looks utterly distraught, glancing up at my approach and tripping in the sand, sprawling onto the ground, Yuna tumbling down with her.

I help her to her feet.

"Seriously, I told you I'd help Yuna," I tell her. "You should wash yourself up. Take a swim, get it off your skin."

She shudders. Mottled with blistering hives, bloody and sandy and exhausted. Like ... all of us … but somehow it's harder to see _Fidan_ looking this defeated.

"I can't…"

"No, I promise, you can leave her with me. I'll take care of Yuna, okay?"

"Statice, I can't…"

"You absolutely can."

"I can't _swim_!"

That stops me in my tracks.

"Oh," I say, feeling very stupid. "Right."

"I can't swim, and I can't stop Yuna from hurting herself, and I can't help her with her plan, and I can't _kill_ anyone, I can't even walk right … I _can't_ , I just _can't_ , I'm so sorry," Fidan says, tears welling up in her big brown eyes.

"You don't have to do any of those things," I tell her. "You're, uh, you're good at lots of things."

"We're going to die," she sobs. "We're really going to die."

"Not _today_ we're not," I say.

"I'll just sit down if you two are having a moment," Yuna rasps, and I remember her peeling skin and turn back to try to help her as best I can.

The cool salty water must sting terribly as I pour it over her raw flesh - her face is contorted in pain - but I hope it will help. In solidarity, I sit next to her as the tide slowly rises towards us, the comparatively cool sand still a source of comfort despite the mild burning of my own blistered skin.

Tiny holes dot the sand, both the dry and wet part, and those freak me out a bit, but I brush some sand over the surface to fill them in.

"You're not alone, Fidan," I announce, giving Yuna a momentary break from the painful process of cleaning her wounds and passing the bottle over so she can have a chance to rinse off without braving the water.

"For better or for worse, you're stuck with us," Yuna adds helpfully, though she looks like she's about to pass out here on the beach.

The sky is beginning to darken - prematurely to the sunset, as cottony grey clouds roll in over the water and the puffy white wisps in the sky thicken to enormous thunderheads. Before the rain can begin to fall, though, something else heavy and silvery spirals down from the clouds above us.

It's a bigger sponsor gift than my socks or the knife, and it lands squarely between the three of us. Fidan gives me an excited look and reaches forward to tear away a corner of the silver paper.

Inside rest three quart-sized bottles of water, a large plastic funnel settled on top of them like a funny translucent hat, and a single small carton of milk.

She gasps openly, though I try to suppress my surprise and excitement at the gift. With the oncoming afternoon downpour, this funnel is a game-changer for collecting our own water - and if we spread out some of the plastic that wrapped the crackers and beef… my mind is whirring with the possibilities.

Fidan, though, seems more excited about the milk.

"Yuna! Here, take a sip," she says, unfolding the stiff cardboard opening. "I think, just maybe…"

Obligingly, Yuna accepts the milk, swallowing experimentally. From the beads of perspiration already sprung up on the white carton, I can tell that it's extremely cold.

After a second, Yuna gasps like she's taking her first complete breath in a week.

"Holy shit," she says, and her voice no longer sounds like a cheese grater being dragged over a square of pavement.

"The blisters looked kinda like pepper spray," Fidan explains, dabbing some of the milk on her own hands and smiling in relief. "My parents run a sort of herb stand."

"I wouldn't have thought of that," Yuna says in wonder. "There must be… medicine in the milk."

"Maybe," Fidan shrugs. "But sometimes old cures are the best ones. You _must_ know that."

I set up the funnel with the leftover plastic we've been saving in anticipation of the rain, and sure enough, as the clouds darken from grey to black, the sky opens up, drenching us gloriously to the skin. The milk takes the edge off in the spots where my skin has blistered open, and I can see it's had the same effect on Fidan - Yuna doesn't look nearly as much like a blistering corpse with the rain washing the mud and the poison from her face.

The mud we used to hide from the Career from District 1 has, somehow, protected her, in the areas where it still clung to her flesh. Instead of being a mass of blistered sores and inflammation, she's scarred in kind of patchy patterns where the mud was thinner or she scratched it away. The high points of her face are red and excoriated, but the hollows of her cheeks and much of the area around her eyes are completely spared.

"What's next?" Fidan asks expectantly as we retreat a few yards into the jungle to begin the search for a tree in which we can plot our next move.

"We have two game-changing weapons, now," Yuna explains. "The fruit, of course, but also the poisoned knife. You saw what a touch of the sap did when it was filtered through water, resting on the leaves… all that is worth it, because concentrated and stuck on this blade… imagine what happened to our skin, but someone's entire circulatory system."

I wince involuntarily.

"Gruesome."

"It's what they deserve," Yuna says quietly.

"No argument here," I reply. "No change to the plan?"

"Once this rain stops, I'll explain exactly what we need - if we're lucky, it's not too late to get some real supplies relatively cheap, because we have one shot at making the actual poisoning strategy work as well as possible. In the meantime, we should drink up and eat what we can, starting with the water we've collected. Just leave the pint bottle unopened. _That's_ our vector for the poison. Okay?"

"Okay," Fidan says. "I'm with you."

"And I'm with you," Yuna reassures Fidan.

It seems like they probably have more to say, but not to me. We stop at an acceptable-looking oak tree, the trunk slick and black with the aftermath of the rain still filtering through the leaves.

"I could go try to find some more beggarticks," I suggest aloud, then edge away in the hopes of giving them some space to have a _moment._

Their voices rise behind me, filtering in low tones through the steaming, sodden swamp.

I think, really think, about how glad I am to be alive. Though my skin still stings, my eyes are red and itchy, and every muscle in my body aches from days of exertion and minimal food and water, I feel my aliveness and my beating heart.

Don't think about it. Just feel it. The water on my face and the thought that, though Fidan and Yuna have a special friendship or understanding or… something between them, I have a place there too, in that tree, with those people, and a place in this world that I can see through my fogging glasses and feel and smell and taste.

I'm so grateful that I found them, and so grateful that I've been allowed to live this long, and so… hopeful, that maybe, just maybe, I'll be allowed to keep living in the days to come.

My heart aches for Dasheen. No one else will die for me.

But I'm still here, just like she wanted, and I'm going to… with Yuna and Fidan's help, _we're_ going to make it right. We won't roll over. We'll honor the dead and we'll honor our own lives and we'll play the game, yeah, but in a way those inhuman brutes from the upper districts could never understand. We've given up so much already. But we have more to give.

Fidan and Yuna have both had the chance to be the hero, now, of this story, and I hope I'll get a turn to help protect them, too.

After some searching, I find a patch of beggarticks so I'll have something to bring back. Already, it seems, the fresh rain has sprouted tiny new leaves from the budding tips of the young plants.

There's hope, even here - whether the Gamemakers give it to us or we make it for ourselves.

I clip the fresh growth from the little flowering plants and begin to find my way back home, feeling my toes in the socks Cereus sent me and the fragile little bits of vegetation in my hands. For now, I… feel. Hearing Fidan and Yuna's quiet voices in the distance, I feel something there, too.

Hope won't sustain us, but with any luck - the story it fuels will keep us alive from one day to the next. And I've given up on asking for any more than that from the world.


	54. Day 3: Sunset in the Swamp Forest

Day 3: Sunset in the Swamp Forest

x

one night, very soon, you'll pack a bag

with your favorite paperback & your mother's .45,  
that the surest shelter was always the thoughts

above your head. That it's fair—it has to be—  
how our hands hurt us, then give us the world.

'Tell Me Something Good', Ocean Vuong

x

Dion Cayes, District 3

The afternoon cloudburst seems to be abating almost as quickly as it set in, which is good news for me. While the shelter of the cave keeps the two of us dry even in the worst of the weather, it's a tight space, which is risky for a lot of reasons. Not the least of which is how many times I've managed to hit my head on the low 'ceiling'.

"You said you had food plans?" Bridget prompts me, opening her eyes from where she rests, propped up on the folded-up bedroll, leaning against the opposite wall to me.

"'Food' would be a strong word," I say, "'Plans' would also be a strong word."

"I'll take any excuse to get out of this cave. What're we tryna do, hunt birds or something? Eat… moss?"

We received a lighter last night, in the aftermath of our encounter with the hunting pair from District 4, which was great, up until we tried to char a little piece of the flesh of one of the mutt snakes and it shriveled like cellophane. I mean, good thing we didn't try to eat it raw, because the smell was more like burning plastic than meat.

Back to the drawing board.

Well, not quite, now that we've got the ability to start a fire.

"Here's my thought," I explain, shifting to my hands and knees and making my way to the mouth of the cave, tapping at the protective layer of brush experimentally to make sure it's not heavy with water. "We got the lighter. I know we couldn't do the fire thing last night - too much attention, neither of us in the mood for a fight, no big deal. But with this rain, with some of the dry brush we've saved in here for patching our cover from the inside, we might catch a break on the fire thing."

"And that attracts delicious wildlife?"

"Well… you remember the edible insects station?" I say, pushing open the makeshift 'door' to the cave with my shoulder, breathing in relief as I enter the clearing.

"Yeah, but… _no_ …" Bridget sighs.

The climate outside of the cave is not the same muggy heat we've been working with for the last couple of days. It's still ungodly hot, of course, but the cave was stifling and, in comparison, this actually feels like a relief.

"Okay, hear me out," I say, after a second's pause to enjoy stretching out to my full height and filling my lungs with fresh air. "Lots of rain drives out the most straightforward things to eat. Larvae and like, earthworms. We start a fire and get whatever we find cooking. It's not a Capitol banquet, but it's not trash-bag-looking snake meat either."

"Beats starving," Bridget replies, stooping to drag out our light packs and some dry brush and fix the covering of the cave's entrance.

When the rain started, Bridget had the brilliant idea to build our own collection funnels out of empty water bottles. She took four empties and, using my non-poisoned knife, sliced the length of the bottles, leaving the ring of the cap intact. After spreading out the strips of plastic she'd cut, with as much skill as any welder, she bridged the gaps with pieces of plastic from food wrappings and the tiny flame from the lighter, melting together the disparate types of plastic to make a delicate, almost boned funnel.

I thought the effect, the flimsy plastic bonded to harmonic tension with the strips of the sliced-up water bottle, was like butterfly wings.

Bridget almost smiled at that.

I haven't seen her smile a lot since last night.

But she gamely finished melding the mouths of the two oversized quart-bottle funnels to empty pint bottles and propped them outside to collect the rain. A solid half pint seems to have collected in each.

The pack I pulled that was just full of water bottles was a lucky break, giving her the supplies to work with and both of us the hydration necessary to survive in the short term, even if the weight wasn't easy on my back. We've emptied a good few, and I check our going-out packs to make sure we have an unopened pint bottle or two in each, leaving the rest in the cave.

No point in bringing the bedroll or anything awkward to carry.

"Nice going on these things," I tell her, picking up one of our water-collecting contraptions and looking it over appreciatively. "Kinda like upside-down umbrellas. Brilliant."

The water collected is almost completely clear - a few bits of leaves that must have been blown around in the rain, but nothing that looks dangerous.

She shuffles and looks a bit uncomfortable with the praise.

"It's not hard. You could have figured it out yourself."

"Nah, I'm not the engineer here. That's Xenita. I do factory maintenance. That doesn't make me all clever with all of… this."

I gesture expressively with the half-full bottle of water.

"Shit," she says, ignoring my compliments entirely. "How do we drink out of it?"

She mimes taking a sip from the delicate umbrella structure and pokes herself in the face with a piece of plastic long before any of the water collected in the bottom trickled back through the bottle and the attached funnel.

"Hey, you molded plastic together once, you can do it again," I say. "Poke a hole in the bottom with my knife, not the scary one, and we can torch it back together after."

"I guess BPA is the least of our worries in here," she replies wryly, and there it is again - the almost-smile, immediately squashed by something else going on in her head. "Let's do it."

"Once we've found some tasty… bugs," I say. "I'm starving."

"Where do we start?" she asks, surveying the clearing. "In the… in the ground?"

"Nah."

I walk up to an older tree, one of the big dark ones with a thick trunk and gnarled bark, and, using the tip of my knife, pry up a chunk of the sodden outer layer.

"You sure this is going to work?" Bridget asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

"Ye of little faith," I argue, digging around with the blade until I expose a few irregularities in the wood which, under closer inspection, reveal the darkened heads of thick white grubs as long as the first segment of my finger.

"Jesus," Bridget comments as I spear the wriggly larvae and draw them out of the bark.

"Jesus' got nothing to do with these little guys."

It's the work of a minute or two to collect six of the huge grubs from the single gouge in the bark.

Back at the edible insect station, what seems like months ago, the instructor cautioned us that even the most straightforward insects to eat should be cooked as a precaution - some of which is owed to the fact that pretty much everything in the arena has been handled by humans at one point or another. As she put it, 'you don't want to die because an avox didn't wash their hands'.

Seems kind of dark, but I can't imagine eating these slimy things raw, either.

"I guess it beats killing something big," I say aloud, stabbing open some more bark.

"Yeah," Bridget says softly. "Yeah, it… yeah."

Coming from the most eloquent person I've probably ever met, her turn for the quiet this last day has been worrying me a lot. I knife out another two grubs and turn to get a look at her.

It's easier to get a good read on her in the molasses-colored light trickling through the treetops overhead than the darkness of the cave. There's something hollow about her expression that has nothing to do with hunger.

I wish we could speak freely in here, that I could know what she's been working out in that ridiculous brain of hers about the world around her. We've gotten close, a couple of times, to agreeing about the mess we're in and who's fault it is. More than I'd have expected at the beginning of things.

But there's no way to confirm we're on the same page without busting up her image as the Capitol-approved 'acceptable sort of rebel' and making me look less like a strapping young gentleman and more like the dangerous anti-District conspirator Mayor Rhodes seems to think I am.

Not that our mostly-absent mentor, Polly Matzeliger, had anything to do with coaching us into the roles we've picked up during our brief period of preparation.

No one blames her - it's pretty obvious from her limited public appearances that she hates being a victor, can't share a stage with Mayor Rhodes, and only barely tolerates time spent in public to recruit promising students to a lab operating out of her house in Victor's Village. She'd never set foot in my part of town, where the schools focus less on software than hardware, and even then fixing as opposed to building.

Bridget and I haven't gotten the chance to talk much about that, either - where we come from, beyond what we can do - but we clearly grew up on different sides of the tracks, as it were.

I think Polly would have liked her, if she'd shown up for more than one meal with us, towards the end of the train ride, by which point Bridget and I were at our boiling-over point.

Beside me, she's set down her rain collectors and started tearing away at the bark with her bare hands - smart, not to risk her venom-coated knife.

"Ugh, I got a couple," she announces, gingerly threading out a grub between two fingers, looking like she might be sick. "Can you help me rip down that big branch up there?"

"You're a natural," I laugh. "And sure."

"You gotta kinda pinch the head, then you can get it out without squishing them."

With a combination of hacking with my chef's knife and muscling down the limbs, we get a few sizeable chunks of branch down and comb through them. It's a toss-up, because some of them turn out to be basically green inside, and some are gold mines of the finger-sized grubs, but it's impossible to tell from the spot where the branch meets the trunk.

Maybe if we were District 7s, this would be easier.

"Where are we gonna set up and cook these little… guys?" I ask, squinting out into the forest after pulling down a fourth branch about as thick around as my bicep and finding it sappy and devoid of food options.

It's even more difficult than usual to see into the distance, as a thick fog seems to be slowly building up between the trees. That'll be good for us, I hope - help camouflage any smoke we inadvertently create.

Absent-mindedly, I trim off the fanning vegetation from the latest branch. With a little time and effort, I might be able to make a good weapon out of it - though I abandon it on the growing pile of stripped branches after fiddling with it only a little.

"We should get away from the cave to do it," Bridget says authoritatively. "How far d'you think we are from a break in the trees?"

"This mist has to be coming from somewhere," I reply. "Let's head back to where we found the tall grass, I don't think it's far from the shore."

Because the route is one we've taken before, we won't need to mark our path to make it back. The oversaturated earth, the temperature change, and the fog all have me on-edge. It feels like forces are shifting in the arena. Hopefully not in a way that fucks us over.

We exit the clearing, careful not to leave any indications that this is the direction of our travel, loaded up with dry brush and the delicate raincatchers in addition to our packs

I've had my dad's 'hammer song' lyrics running through my head all afternoon, but it doesn't feel like the right time to start whistling. Instead, I pay careful attention to my footfalls, the twigs around my face, and the sound of my own breathing. There's a muffled character to the atmosphere, though the insect noises in the trees have crescendoed after the cloudburst. The arena is quiet on the ground, but alight with noise and activity overhead.

It's a good twenty-minute walk to the place where the trees break into low-lying vegetation and then slope into crashing grey water. Unceremoniously, we dump the dry brush in a clear spot. Now that I can see the horizon, it seems obvious that the mist has been rolling in from the ocean. It's hard to even tell where the sun is in the sky, everything buried in all this endless white mush.

Bridget sets the brush pile alight as I yank a few twigs from one of the lower-hanging oaks that makes part of the border between the swamp forest and the sort-of-beach. It's a job finding ones that'll actually be skinny enough to spear our pockets full of half-dead bugs.

"Ready to try 'em out?" I offer, passing a stick to Bridget as she stokes the fire into a tidy little blaze.

"Hungry enough, I guess," she says with a shudder. "Don't really have a choice, do we?"

We've both watched enough of the Games to know that whoever cuts this shit loves to focus on district kids eating gross stuff. That unspoken acknowledgment - that we're about to be the butt of the Capitol's joke - hangs heavy between us.

Fucking bastards, gotta make us look like savages so they can laugh, when Bridget, at least, is smarter than most of them put together.

She's still got some pride, eyeing over the grubs before she takes one between two delicate fingers, grimacing yet again. I'm pretty sure this will hurt her more than it will hurt me. I spent a week in jail after the reaping stunt - hell, I've got a nine-to-five, from that alone I know what it feels like to buckle up and fix the pipe or clean up the mess as someone who thinks they're above it looks on.

I'm not judging. It takes practice, compartmentalizing this stuff.

"Check it out," I declare, hoping to save her some embarrassment.

I spear a grub deftly, trying not to watch as goo seeps out of its white, segmented body. Before I think about it too much, I thrust the stick straight into the fire, watching it brown and bubble in the flames.

 _Protein_ , I think to myself. _Need this to live_.

Either Polly's disappeared somewhere - which I don't think they'd let her do with two tributes actually in the arena - or we just don't have enough sponsor cash for anything really filling at the moment. Guess we should be grateful we have the lighter, even. It's seeming like a lifesaver, the alternative being eating these wriggly things raw.

Before my singeing grub can wholesale catch fire, I draw it out and wave the stick around to cool it off a little.

"Looks… tasty," Bridget comments.

The thing at the end of my stick looks a little like a fingerling potato if I unfocus my eyes so I can't really see the little head or the lumps of the body. The smell is kind of earthy, a little like wet moss mixed with smoke.

I try to keep my mind on the last breakfast I had with Xenita.

"At least it's definitely dead," I sigh. "Nothing beats leftovers from Xe's restaurant - not even a Capitol spread, sorry guys - but here's to the next best thing. Cheers."

Without any further ceremony, I flip the stick to face me and pop the bug into my mouth.

It's not cinematic just to swallow it. I know I gotta chew, gotta make the right face. And I do, as the thing pops like a molten piece of cheese inside a scorched outer membrane. I wince, in part because I think I've halfway burnt my mouth and in part because the taste is kinda like a mushroom had a baby with packet of unflavored gelatin.

"Not bad," I force myself to say. "Protein."

Ugh.

"Well, you sold me with that face journey," she replies, mouth twisting into a wry grin. "Now I gotta see for myself."

We share the little fire, each roasting a fresh grub for a second go at our gross-out close-up. This time, we 'cheers' with our twin sticks and take a bite together.

"Okay. You know what it's like?" Bridget says suddenly, swallowing with some effort. "Remember the first night on the train, just us and Nerva, and those puff pastries he'd shove in his face whenever we started asking where our mentor was?"

Of course I remember.

Nerva is a recent appointee as District 3's escort, and he hasn't been around long enough for us to have much of an opinion on him beyond observations as his charges. He's a middle-aged man who was clearly out of his depth with two traumatized, opinionated tributes demanding to know where Polly was, unsatisfied with offers of food and beverages to distract us from our fear and frustration and rising sense of injustice.

He had a fondness for some kind of bizarre garlicky cream puff, which Bridget is now miming consuming by the handful.

"That was a fucking awful night," I comment, trying to swallow the lignering grub-taste out of my mouth.

"I've had worse," she laughs. "Not many, though. One of us has to win so next year District Three's kids don't get stuck with Polly again."

"Honestly, these bugs are probably better for us than those damn cream puffs," I say, blowing on a toasted grub with only the slightest hint of a grimace.

"Poor Nerva's heart is going to give out if he keeps eating his feelings."

The fire is starting to feel really pleasant, because especially near the grey shore, the arena feels definitively colder. Though we kept pretty dry in the cave, walking through the wet fog was a little like walking through one of those steamy Capitol showers, and now that the wind is on my face, it's the first real relief from the sweaty, clinging heat in days.

Even from the shore, even with the cracking of the fire and the popping noises of the grubs speared on twigs, the sounds of life in the swamp forest have only intensified. We start to work on round three, and round four, but it doesn't get much easier with repetition. There's an alarming sense that we're being watched, and the rising noise levels in the swamp forest aren't helping with that.

Bridget seems to be hearing the change in the ambient soundscape for the first time, flinching and whipping around as something on the large side flutters through the trees, sounding some kind of bird call.

"How you holding up?" I ask, drawing another toasted grub from the fire and inspecting it carefully, this time pinching off the withered head before I pop it in my mouth and swallow quickly. I think the texture of the little head is the worst part.

"Awesome," she lies. "Didn't sleep too well, that's all."

"I noticed. You wanna talk about anything?" I offer. "It's been a rough couple of days, man. Y'know, anything you can put words to."

"There's not much to say," she sighs. "I'm just tired."

I give her a long look, but she pointedly doesn't glance away from her grub over the fire. It begins to char. She doesn't look up.

"Hey," I say. "I don't like to be invasive, but I want you to know - 'cause maybe you don't know - it's obvious something's up. You don't have to act like nothing's wrong to play strong. That guy tried to kill us and you saved both our asses and you don't have to feel guilty about it, but it's okay to like… feel shit. It's healthy to feel shit."

She sighs.

"I'm fine. Just keep thinking about stuff."

"Look, my mom is the strongest person I know, and she never… she never lets on about actually needing anything, and I felt guilty for the longest time because I couldn't read her mind," I say. "It took forever to learn how to ask, man. So I'm asking, now, if there's anything I can do to help. 'Cause I want to hear what's up, and I can't listen if you're not talking."

"From everything you've told me, she sounds like a great lady," Bridget replies carefully. "But you don't have to take care of me, Dion."

"I kinda do, though, because you're my friend," I argue.

My grub is burning, and I yank it out of the fire.

"Friends look out for friends, and… well, friends don't let friends feel like they can't talk about poison-stabbing some psycho."

"You should do a PSA about that," she says, looking away, but maybe almost laughing. "Hunger Games themed public service announcement: friends don't let friends eat awful bug stuff alone, friends support each other when they fucking kill a fucking…"

"Joke it off if you want," I say. "I'm here for you, okay? I was there. You didn't do anything wrong, you're not in some moral tailspin, you saved both our asses and I'm damn grateful for it."

She nods once.

I decide to let it go for a bit, because it really is weirdly nice out here, once you get past the humming energy from the swamp forest and the foreign unknowableness of the roiling fog out over the waves. Warm at the fire's side. Once the taste of the bugs sorta blends together, it's really not too bad, and it's insanely nice to have some warm food in me for once.

I try to fantasize about real food, about my little fold-up table back at home, sitting across from Xenita, but it feels so far away. Almost unreal. Almost like a dream, a warm and happy dream. But what's present is the fire and the damp sand under my pants and the feel of the stick with which twirling a grub over the fire.

Even the Capitol seems like we were there a month ago. Like Nerva and Polly are people I read about in a book, stories Xenita told me about her coworkers at the restaurant. Moment to moment is what's real.

It's a weird feeling, that everything I've ever cared about is as shrouded in mist and locked away in memories as the unseen horizon.

"You're not made of steel, Bridget," I say, finally. "Neither is my mom, neither am I. Burying pain doesn't make it not true or not painful, y'know."

"Yeah," Bridget says slowly. "Yeah, you're right. But also… being made of steel, here, true or not… doesn't sound too bad, does it?"

"Can't deny that'd be good timing," I laugh. "If you're planning on turning into metal, like, actually, I'd suggest sooner rather than later."

In the process of laughing, she snorts aloud.

"Oh hell, did _you_ make that noise?" I ask, which makes her snort again in embarrassment. "Jesus, I shoulda stuck with the District Four girl. Forget made of metal, you're half-pig."

"Lay off," she laughs.

I don't tell her about how my mother used to comfort me when I cried over some pain or injustice by provoking me to laugh. This seems like one of those moments that would be killed by over-explanation. Talking about my mom has made me miss her. I will myself to remember, to keep the love and happiness of home alive, not to think of it as something that happened in a different lifetime to a different man.

Bridget is more of a comfort than I thought she'd be. She'd fit right in at the dinner table at holidays, though I'm sure my sisters would think she was prissy until they heard her argue. She's got a real put-together way of interacting with the world that could definitely rub you the wrong way if you met her at the wrong time.

During the Games, though, well… it pays to be steel, I guess, even if the emotional toll is real and inevitable.

"Are we out of grubs?" Bridget asks.

"Two more to go," I sigh.

"Ech."

"To our continued good health," I declare, gesturing with my skewered grub as though I'm holding a scepter.

To toast our successful meal, I use the tip of my increasingly battered chef's knife to gouge a hole in the base of each of the rain collection vessels, and we drink from the bottom of the ungainly contraptions like we're shotgunning cans of beer.

Not a huge step up from eating literal bugs, but at least there's the pride that we wouldn't have gotten this water without our own ingenuity - well, Bridget's ingenuity.

Using the little fire, I heat the tip of my knife and use it to melt the plastic at the base of the collection bottles back together in the places where it's torn. Once we're done, we kick some sand on the fire, but mostly leave it to smolder out.

Wordlessly, we take one last look at the mist-choked horizon and plunge back into the swamp forest, following our tracks back the way we came. It takes a lot of attention and energy to keep my head from smacking into boughs hanging overhead and to make sure my feet are landing on even ground.

I think that's why I hear them first.

Something - more than one something - distinctly human.

"Hey. Hey, hold up," I mutter, reaching out my arm to keep Bridget from walking past me.

"What?" she whispers, matching my tone, but once our footsteps in the mud are quieted, it's apparent she can hear the voices trickling through the trees all on her own.

Did the District 4 girl come back with friends?

That's my most immediate fear. _Was_ my most immediate fear, watching her disappear into the forest as Bridget fought her psychotic partner.

Listening closer, steeling my stance and not shifting my feet but angling for a better look, I can almost catch a glimpse of one of the trainees, the boy from District 2, standing beside the mouth of the cave. Though it's not quite clear from a distance, it seems our careful camouflage has been torn asunder.

"Someone's definitely been holing up here," an unfamiliar voice from inside the cave calls. "Dunno who, though. Some bottle caps from empties, one big water bottle left full. It's been like two and a half days, how much water does one person drink?"

"In this heat, we shouldn't make assumptions," the person that I recognize as the boy from District 2 replies, a little touchily, like he's annoyed with whoever's in the cave.

"How come I had to do this part?" his companion replies, the sound of the voice changing as she presumably exits the cave into the clearing.

"You're like _two feet tall_."

"Height-ism."

"Common sense."

Bridget and I make horrified eye contact at the realization that we're dealing with a mixed-district trainee pair, almost certainly hunting. Hopefully not tracking us specifically. Probably not, based on their lack of clarity about the number of inhabitants of the cave.

She tilts her head, indicating a direction deeper into the forest. I estimate I'll be able to walk about ten feet without encountering branches so low I'll start making noise, but we have to get off the path we've been following between the clearing and the shore. Even if we can't get that far away without raising the alarm.

Bridget might be able to bolt silently.

But even if she could, she hangs next to me, carefully setting down her empty raincatcher, drawing her poisoned knife.

Guess we're dealing with this together, whatever that ends up meaning.

" _Any_ way," the guy says tiredly, like he's been having the same conversation with this girl for the last two days, "how many people would it take to drink this many… bottle caps worth of water?"

"Well, not Renata," the District 1 girl sighs. "She hasn't been alone long enough. Uh… those outer-district kids aren't very big, three of them here would make sense, if Manari saw what he thought he saw."

"Really, the _District Seven_ girl is passing up a forest full of trees to sleep in a cave?"

"Dude, back _off_ , neither of us have a fucking clue what's in these trees. Could be… mutts, or something. Don't act like you know shit I don't here, okay?"

Her voice, which I remember as throaty and calculatedly seductive, is heavy with exhaustion.

My mind is racing with ways to get out of this situation. Getting back to the cave to pick up any pieces they didn't steal or destroy seems like a pointless goal, so getting the fuck out is sounding like a good idea. But at the same time, now that they're not digging through our stuff, any movement or footfall might betray us. I'm holding my breath, and I have no confidence in my ability to navigate the damp, darkening swamp without calling a bad kind of attention to ourselves.

I can deal with one trainee. Between me and Bridget, if we got lucky, we might make it out of a fight with two, if we tried to get the jump on them, but their weapons give them a lot more range than ours do, even though Bridget's knife is deadly.

She's not getting close enough to use it, with that huge two-handed blade the guy is carrying or the spear wielded by the girl from One.

Whether or not we could take advantage of the element of surprise, I'm not liking our chances. This is different than the pair from Four. These are professionals, tired or not.

The guy pulled an eleven, for crying out loud.

It seems like a terrible plan, but I just… stay frozen. Bridget, beside me, seems to have come to the same conclusion about our best move.

If they come our way… then, I guess, it's time to run. Hope the trees put enough of a barrier between us and that girl's spear, because lord knows I'm about as good a target as someone could ask for. Otherwise, stay where we are until they leave. There's a whole lot of forest for them to traipse into in search of whoever inhabited the cave.

That's assuming our number hasn't come up for the Gamemakers yet.

No one's died today. That could be a bad sign.

But what can either of us do about it? Quietly, I draw my large knife - shooting Bridget a reassuring glance, nodding to indicate I'm staying right here with her until something about the situation changes.

Perspiration is running down my back. Even in the low evening light beneath the thick canopy overhead, I can see it gleaming on Bridget's wide-eyed face as well. The slightly cooler air rolling in from the sea means very little in the moisture-drenched air, and with every passing second, it feels more and more like we're being boiled in a stewpot.

"Hold on," the girl says, and it sounds louder because she's much closer to the edge of the clearing than before.

I hold my breath for a long pause.

"Look how high up those branches were broken off," she says. "Can you reach that high?"

There's a shuffling noise as, presumably, the guy from District 2 has a go at matching my vertical reach.

"No," he finally says. "Someone here's taller than six foot two. By a lot."

Another pause as they presumably realize that means me.

Bridget rolls her eyes at how long it's taking them, and if my heart wasn't pounding harder than it has since facing off blind with those snake mutts, I'd actually laugh at her contempt of these people. I may yet if we make it out of this alive.

"So it's District Three. Think they're hanging around?" the girl says slowly.

"Would _you_ abandon this much water?" the guy asks, and I hear the quart bottle slosh slightly.

"If you wanna get technical, we got a lot more water than this back at the Cornucopia, and we left it under the watchful eye of your psychotic-"

"If you're going to insult her… don't."

Bridget makes an even more disgusted face in my direction, and I shrug emotively. Like it or not, we're frozen here at the mercy of a couple of bickering assholes, so long as they stay in the clearing where the reach of their longer weapons is an advantage.

I'm starting to think we'll have a shot if they come this way. Bridget survived her encounter with the boy from District 4 by exploiting the close quarters of the thick vegetation. That's not a brilliant bet when I'm 6'8 and just standing around threatens to see me brained by an overhanging branch, but our weapons are much more suitable for combat in tight spaces.

"So what, you want to torch their stuff and track them?" the girl offers. "It's getting dark."

"They did leave a convenient pile of dry brush," the guy replies. "Actually, if we smoked it up a bit, couldn't that draw them back?"

"Assuming they haven't made a break for it already. But that's worth a shot. You wanna do the honors?"

More unseen shuffling as they make good use of the dried-up branches and grass we left behind. A click - I hold my breath, waiting for the _whoosh_ of fire catching - then, anticlimactically, several more clicks.

"C'mon, Marcus, can't work a fucking lighter?"

Finally, with another click, there's the sound of hissing, burning plant matter.

"Fuck," the girl says, "I can't tell one way from another in this fog. How're we gonna get back here?"

" _Compass_ , Jewel. It's called a compass."

It does seem to be getting even thicker and soupier in the woods - even glancing between the trees, I can scarcely see into the clearing, only the sputtering noise of our bedroll burning making it obvious where we are in relation to the Careers.

With some telltale clicks in the clearing, two thick beams of light spring into being.

"These are pretty useless," the guy comments drily.

"No shit, detective."

They enter the woods, and I hold my breath, clench my fist around my knife, and wait.

In a few seconds, the sounds of their footsteps seems to have disappeared in the swell of mist and the noises from the treetops overhead.

Bridget is grimacing when I look back at her, but in the lowering light - it's wearing on into evening, though there's no sign of the sunset through the trees - it's increasingly difficult to discern her expression.

A few more seconds, stretching into a minute, then two. We wait, weapons ready, for something terrible to happen. The fire crackles in the clearing. The waiting makes the time drip by like molasses from a near-empty bottle.

Smoke starts to mix with the fog, turning acrid as the fire the boy started spreads fully from the brush to the synthetic fibres of the bedroll.

Maybe we should just run. But I feel off about the whole situation, and Bridget, I think, does too.

Our suspicions are confirmed when an animal breaks into the clearing - from a distance, through the smoky air, what appears to be a tiny deer - and before I can get a good look at it, a spear flies through the trees and skewers the elegant little beast like a grub on a twig.

"Could you _physically be_ any louder?" I hear the guy ask his partner, the spear-thrower, as he emerges from the misty woods, barely twenty feet away. "They're from the districts, that doesn't make them deaf or idiots."

"Maybe I just wanted to get the little deer," his partner shoots back.

"Well, _now_ they're not gonna show their faces. Unless they're angling for some kind of lung infection," he argues, coughing on the chemical-smelling smoke. "I think I found some kind of path. Let's get out of here. Take your spear. Try not to trip on it."

They pass alarmingly close, but they pass - for real this time.

Bridget doesn't wait, glances around and sprints off into the woods.

I pause for a while longer, listening as their voices in the distance completely vanish, then glancing back into the clearing where the mangled corpse of the little deer rests.

My tongue still tastes a little bit like the grubs.

In a split second decision, I dash in, grab the deer by its four tiny legs, and nearly trip over the large pile of branches we tore down. I take one of those, too - the one I cleaned off into a serviceable staff-length. Then I bolt after Bridget, not even sparing a last glance at the cave.

It was good while it lasted.

"Dion!" Bridget hisses as I catch up to her easily, my strides about twice as long as hers. "Fuck! Don't be _stupid_!"

"It'd be _stupid_ to leave behind _actual food_ , and with a weapon with a good reach, we won't get stuck in a situation like that again," I pant, tucking the green wood sort-of-staff under my arm so it doesn't get in the way.

"You dumb brave asshole."

"Uh, takes one to know one," I reply, accepting one of our raincatchers so Bridget doesn't have to double-fist the delicate instruments and setting a pace directly away from the cave, putting as much distance as possible between us and the beach. "Miss 'protest queen', 'fight a trainee one-on-one in the woods and win', 'save my ass from mutt snakes'…"

"Shut _up_."

I haven't flat-out run in the swamp forest since day one, and I'm not overjoyed to be lacerating my cheeks with low-hanging twigs, but as the forest darkens around us into night, and the anthem begins to play somewhere overhead through the thick tangle of branches. No deaths. Not ours, not anyone else's. Barrelling through the fog doesn't give me a phenomenal sense of comfort, but it beats standing with my muscles locked at the edge of a clearing, lemme tell you.

After we've been running for a good long while with no sign of being followed, Bridget slumps against a tree, breathing heavily.

"What the fuck was all that?" she demands. "How come we're alive? What the… who even was that?"

I shrug, putting down my heavy pack and pausing to take a better look at what I'll need to do to this bigass stick to make it a worthwhile weapon.

"Hunting pairs, like they usually do. Pretty normal trainee move. They're a talk-y bunch this year. Not really surprising, I don't think."

"That fucking deer could have been us," Bridget says, still catching her breath.

"Yeah, but we trusted our guts and it paid off. Now we got a real dinner. Let's get a fire started."

She looks at me like I'm crazy.

"In _here_? We're a good thirty minute run from those trainees, but we're in no position to go around setting fires, advertising our being here."

"Why not?" I demand. "Did you hear them? Have you… have you seen _us_ , Bridget? Look, I know it's fucked up, but don't short sell yourself. You killed a trainee already. You're the only one in this arena who's done that. They had better weapons and yeah, we'd have gotten sliced to bits and skewered if we'd tried to fight those guys in the clearing. But in the trees like this? Their weapons are liabilities, and they're exhausted and at each others' throats. It's been a hard day, but let's be realistic. We shouldn't have been hiding in a cave in the first place. I think Polly might actually be telling us something, here, by not sending us anything."

Bridget's surprise at my outburst is palpable, even though the forest is pretty much dark, now.

"What, she's… sending us a message? Dion, we've met her like three times, the only message she's sending is that she's found something more interesting to do than be in the control room. She's hoping we die so she can get back to her stupid lab and punch numbers into a holo-screen that does something other than send us lighters and medicine."

"No," I insist. "I think she's telling us we gotta stop… playing the district kids. We gotta be proactive."

Drawing our roll of duct tape from my back, I make several loops and solidly affix my chef's knife to the end of the long straight branch.

"Knife on a stick," I announce.

"Spear," Bridget laughs.

"You gotta rain on my parade, here? We can't all be fancy inventors who went to fancy inventor school," I reply, grinning at her. "You already had the right answer, I was just too dumb to catch on. Polly wants us to fight back. That's how we'll get out of here."

"So what, we arm up and go try and take the trainees on head to head?"

"Does it sound so much crazier than eating bugs?"

She pauses.

"Y'know… I did eat some fucking beetle larvae today because of you."

"Yeah, and now all I'm saying is… let's start a fire and see what happens. They can't beat us at close range, Bridget."

I snap the thick branch that I've dubbed my 'knife stick' down to about three feet long, not counting the knife-blade part of the stick. This is the kind of leverage I need to fend off… pretty much anything, close-quarters or clearing-style. I swing the knife stick around experimentally, and it moves pretty easily, even within the close-together trees.

Actually, I can manage a sort of chopping motion with it that I doubt would be so easy for that trainee boy's curved sword, along with pretty much anything he could do in such a tight space.

"That's not a spear anymore, dude," Bridget says.

"No, it's better. It's my knife stick."

"I'm not gonna fight you here, but I hope someone else decides to so I can watch," she replies with a low whistle. "You got it, man, let's get the fire going. I'm starving."

"Next trainee that shows up better be ready," I declare, helping her to stoke the fire with the least damp leaves I can pluck from the branches overhead.

As the words leave my mouth, though, they feel like a bad omen, and I realize that the forest around us, even the trees overhead, is silent and still.

Except for a pair of uneven footsteps.

Not ten feet away, barely visible in the flickering beginnings of firelight, the girl from District 4 stands at an uncomfortable angle, her jaw swollen grotesquely on one side. She's armed, but she's leaning on her spear like it's a walking stick, not pointing it at us or anyone.

"Am I not welcome?" she says haggardly, a trickle of blood running from between her lips where she opens her mouth to speak.

For perhaps the first time ever, both Bridget and I are shocked speechless.

x

 _Just so you know, I'm still writing this. The next chapter will be very soon, I just got stuck on trying to figure out how to order the POVs here._


	55. Day 3: Why We Do It

Day 3: Why We Do It

x

We rested in red mangrove and sheltered in sheets.  
Our bruises blushed backwards, our blisters did.  
 _is it true is it true  
_ God help us we tried to stay shattered but we just got better.  
We grew adept, we caught the fish as they fled.  
We skinned the fish, our knife clicked like an edict.  
We were harmed, and then we healed.

'Assault to Abjury', Raymond McDaniel

x

Manari Issa, District 1

For a blissful moment, upon waking, I have no idea where I am. The pervasive scent of salt water and blood is masked by something being cooked nearby, fresh coffee. I could almost be waking up at home. Listening to my parents speaking in the kitchen, muted by my door.

I could have had a late evening in the Center, which would explain the pain that radiates through my body as I draw shallow breaths. I'm just… sore. Which doesn't make sense with the last thing I remember, or the blood, I'm caked with blood and dirt, that seems… wrong. Where am I waking up? Why is my head spinning so badly?

A name, I remember a name, even as sleep threatens to drag me back into unconsciousness.

"Jewel?" I try to call, though it comes out more a croak.

There's someone outside my… tent, oh, I'm in a tent, I'm in…

It all comes crashing back.

Some fucking 'pain pill' she gave me.

Hating myself for the vulnerable situation I've gotten myself into, I make a few unsuccessful attempts at getting up before I finally manage to balance my weight on my less mangled elbow and achieve, at least, a sitting position. It takes a few tries to get the zipper to the tent, too, but once I have that, evening sunlight spills into the tent, disorienting me all over again.

I blink in the golden light, trying to get my bearings before I hurl myself headfirst into a potentially dangerous situation. I should probably try to be nice. But I haven't spent enough time with Cora to really know how to appease her. And I'm not fond of her to begin with.

There seems to be a reason, though, that she hasn't responded to my ungainly exit from the tent.

Cora is sitting sprawled before the fire, two pots balanced on the cooking setup she and Marcus created on the first day - coffee boiling in one pot, meat roasting in the other.

I can tell it's meat - beef, to be specific - because she's eating a fist-sized piece of it with her bare hands.

"Good morning," she says a bit sheepishly through a mouthful of food.

I try not to look too openly disgusted. Glass houses, glass houses... I'm caked with mud and blood and filth and I can't… well, _shouldn't_ … project my displeasure with my own circumstances on a mere messy eater. A messy eater who's apparently doing hamstring stretches while eating half her weight in steak.

But then I remember that she drugged me to sleep just a few hours earlier, and I feel a bit better about judging her.

"The sun is _setting_ ," I reply. "What are you doing?"

"Marcus doesn't eat meat, but Jewel says you do, as long as it's not pork, so I made meat," she says, a bit defensively. "I worked really hard on it. I had to rehydrate the beef first and then season it and now I'm cooking it. It's really good."

"I can see that."

" _You_ don't look great," she adds, as though I need someone to remind me of that, with most of my body little more than a throbbing mass of pain and stiffness.

"Tell me about it," I say.

"Food will help you heal. You haven't eaten all day," she says, trying to covertly wipe the charred bits from around her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Really, I haven't eaten? In my involuntary coma, I hadn't noticed," I tell her.

"Well, I gave you a few bags of IV fluids, but that's all," she explains, misreading my sarcasm entirely. "But that was to keep you from bleeding out - if your good arm hurts, that's because I'm not very good at finding your veins. It's easier on me because I'm transparent. With you I sorta had to… guess."

So that's why it was so difficult maneuvering even my good arm in dragging myself out of the tent. I glance back and discover that I've wrenched a flexible, bloody little tube from my arm, and a fresh puncture wound is oozing blood.

"You did… what?" I clarify, hoping she might tell me something useful, though talking, like everything else, hurts. The idea that I could discern the pain of a few needles in this mess I've made of my body is laughable.

"You don't seem to have anything broken, like, catastrophically," she says. "I'll look you over and make sure now that there's less… mangled stuff in the way. The ointment was working really well when I did your first dressing change. Then we have some great anti-inflammatory drugs, and you might get lucky on sponsors. If not, I'll redo your dressings again and then it's just cold packs and bed rest. That's all."

"Don't drug me again," I say, as warningly as I can manage when I feel like I've just been scraped off the hood of a car and I'm barely keeping myself balanced on one hand and my throbbing, bandaged knees in the sand.

"Y'know," she says after a long pause. "Some people would be grateful. I can see that's not the vibe we got going here, and that's fine. But don't think you can threaten me. I saved your life in there."

I just nod, curtly, in acknowledgement.

"Fine," she sighs. "Now, you gotta be starving, and that's no good. I'll cut the meat up small so you can eat it with one hand. Wait, shit, should I redo your bandages first? I think I should. You'll feel better once you're cleaned off a bit."

"That would be… great," I say, with hopefully-not-audible effort to be civil and express appropriate gratitude.

"Great! I went and got a pot full of seawater earlier and boiled it, that should just be warm by now."

"Thanks," I say awkwardly.

We collaboratively - mostly her - get the rest of me out of the tent. Once I'm on the sand, she daubs the mud and blood that cake most of my skin away with a dampened piece of cloth torn from a clean shirt, even though the process - the slightest pressure on the swollen flesh - makes me wince. I can tell she's just as on edge about the whole thing as I am. I've made her very vulnerable by demanding so much attention to this one task.

I would honestly cut off my other leg by myself if it would get rid of this uncomfortable feeling of _owing_ her. Owing _her_ , when I can still see a bit of char smudged at the corner of her mouth.

Time passes in agonizing silence.

"Can you, like, get a shirt on and off by yourself?" she finally asks, a little pleadingly, once she's gotten my exposed skin cleaned off better.

Gritting my teeth at the indignity, I shake my head 'no'.

She finds a button-up in the Cornucopia that looks like it might fit me, and uses a pair of bandage scissors to remove the old garment, stiff with blood, touching me as little as possible in the process. The hard part is getting my arms through the sleeves of the fresh shirt - she eventually rips the short sleeves off in a fit of frustration.

It's very, very strange to be this close to someone who isn't Jewel, who would be joking her way through this whole process to make it both more _and_ less awful.

Honestly, I can practically imagine her with the sleeves - 'real macho, hm?' she'd say. 'A bit of fanservice to attract some sponsors.'

But Cora just flinches like I'm about to hit her, which is ridiculous, because we got the same score in training and goodness knows, a well-placed kick could probably finish me off, held together with bandages and ointment as I am.

"How we doing?" she asks gingerly before slipping on a pair of latex gloves and rolling off the bloodied bandages swathed over the wounds in my arm and shoulder.

"About as well as one would expect," I say, expending a herculean effort to keep my face straight as it feels like half my body has been dipped in liquid fire.

"It's _so_ much better than it was," she says, removing the first bandage and surveying the results.

"Doesn't… make it feel better," I tell her through a clenched jaw.

"C'mon, don't whine," she says, a flicker of something genuine in her eyes. "You lived. You were stronger than whatever did this to you."

"Not really," I say bitterly. "Some district girl saved me. Seven, I think."

Cora blinks in surprise, beginning to clean the wound itself with some spare bandages, flinching back as I _almost_ make a noise of pain.

Almost.

"That's… still good," she says. "You still lived."

"You don't _actually_ think that," I tell her, hearing the dark cloud in my voice and worrying I've gone too far with this.

But _come on_.

"Jewel would have killed me and Marcus on the spot if you'd died," she says mildly, ignoring my tone. "So yeah, I'm pretty chill with you being alive, for now. We're actually allies. Dunno if you forgot that bit."

Once she starts adding more ointment instead of scraping away dead flesh, it actually does start to feel better. Whatever this is, it's good stuff. The kind of thing your sponsors can send you if they haven't already wasted half your betting sum on fixing a broken foot that a mutt decided to use as a chew toy later that day.

"You seem better," I say, observing how her hands stay steady even though the slightest noise makes her jump. "Than you were."

"I got some sleep," she says, actually smiling. "Trust me, this is a 'for now' kind of deal."

I don't trust her, and she knows it. But on this… well, she has no reason to lie.

"Anything more I should expect?" I ask. "Since we're allies and all."

"Well, when it comes down to it… seriously, _don't_ with the 'threatening' thing," she cautions. "Like, _any_ other time. Marcus is most of my self control."

I almost laugh, but she delivers the line with such a straight face.

"What's going on there?" I ask, now that we seem to be speaking conversationally, which has literally never happened before.

"Hey, I need a little give and take," she complains. "Tell me about you and Jewel first. I know she's grilling Marcus out there right now."

Now, I actually chuckle at the image. Jewel on her worst day could wheedle nuclear launch codes out of the President.

"Well, she doesn't think highly of what the two of you have… happening," I explain, which seems like something Cora could figure out for herself.

Cora looks a little heartbroken, though, actually glancing up from adding a dab of ointment to one of my puncture wounds to see if I'm being serious.

" _I_ don't have an opinion," I say, doubling back. "I think she worries about you. She does that, cares a lot about… other women. I respect that about her."

"Oh," Cora says, a little subdued. "She shouldn't worry. I doubt she actually does. But I mean... I don't really get _her_ deal. It's fine."

"We know each other from the Center," I add hastily, hoping to get her back somewhere that's useful for me. "Like you and Marcus."

"Really?" she asks. "I wouldn't peg you guys for like, best of friends."

She finishes ministering to the wounds on my arm and wraps me from shoulder to elbow in fresh gauze.

"Well, not exactly friends," I say. "We had a healthy mutual respect."

Not completely a lie. I respect her much more now that I've gotten to know her better.

"Kinda the same with me and Marcus," she admits. "It's hard to make friends in training. If you want to get picked, it kind of feels like you can't have friends. Like they don't want you to."

"Uh, can't really relate," I say slowly.

She gives me a curious look that devolves into discomfort.

"I hate to do this... but... the pants," she says seriously, like she's telling me I have some kind of grave disease. "The pants… cannot stay on."

My grimace could be seen from a hovercraft flying overhead.

"I understand," I say. "Please tell me how I can help."

"The leg is pretty bad," she warns me. "I'm not sure how to get you clothed once you've been unclothed when you're not all knocked out and can... feel."

"A towel?" I suggest, disregarding the implications of what she's saying. "Do we have a towel?"

She gives me an apologetic look and returns to the Cornucopia, bringing back a thin beige towel that looks like it _might_ cover my face and a loose t-shirt.

"How about the shirt?" she offers.

"I'll make it work," I reply, not meeting her eyes.

Wordlessly, she hands me the loose garment and begins to cut off my long, loose, grime-soaked pants. Not that I can see, because I have my eyes closed as tightly as possible and am silently reciting prayers to keep my mind off this utterly ghastly situation.

How did I get here, from who I was before? I remember Fahrah chiding me about Shine's overly-cuddly drunken state, how yes, I used to get… well, not _that_ drunk, but enough to… be much less uncomfortable with circumstances such as these.

" _Shirt_ , please," Cora instructs me hastily.

Obligingly, with my good hand, I cover myself as she removes my pants.

"It's not pretty," she says, scrutinizing my bandages. "Probably a good thing Jewel and Marcus decided to go out themselves. You're gonna be laid up for a while longer."

I stifle my disappointment as best I can. The sheer, blinding pain of my injuries takes my mind a bit off being left behind. And the hope that I can get better.

What was hurting Jewel yesterday wasn't just being hurt, it was… feeling abandoned.

And it's hard to feel abandoned with Cora taking a break from wound care to slice up little bits of steak for me to eat and offer me a bottle of water.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask her.

"Smaller bits of meat will be easier for you to chew," she says impatiently, offering me one. "Try it, I can cook it longer if you want."

Unfortunately, I can't simultaneously grit my teeth and take a bite.

It's not bad.

"Not the meat," I finally say, after accepting a few pieces. "How badly did Jewel scare you? Did she threaten to do something to you?"

Cora actually laughs, dropping a piece of meat in the process.

"She doesn't scare me."

"She should," I warn her.

"Nothing scares me."

"That's not a very healthy way to live your life," I sigh, finally shifting up to a half-sitting position where I can better feed myself.

"No offense, but _my_ philosophy seems to be getting me further and keeping me healthier than _yours_ ," she says, though she presses her lips together as though she's surprised by her bravery as the words leave her mouth.

I laugh.

"If it was… Marcus, I would understand. For me, I don't. At all. Like, this isn't endearing you to me beyond our alliance. I'm not going to fall on my knife and let you win because you played 'trauma nurse' for a day. Full disclosure."

"That's the most words you've ever said to me at once!" she says brightly.

"Probably not a smart choice, warning off the person who's keeping me alive," I say, grimacing.

"Nah, thanks for being honest, but I don't care. I… I just don't like to see people hurting."

"I'm calling bullshit," I say, canting my head towards the bloodstain on the Cornucopia from where she bashed the girl from District 5's head in.

"That…" she says, trailing off and staring at the stain.

Silence hangs between us for a long second.

"That's what I'm good at, Manari. That's all I'm good at."

"You're pretty good at patching people up," I suggest, uncomfortable with how sad she suddenly looks.

"So what, I'm gonna be a doctor or some shit? I can barely read. This is all I know how to do. Break stuff and half-fix it. And I'm good at it," she says defensively. "You think I'm good at stitching you up? Wait till you see how good I kill you."

I raise my good hand, palm-up, in surrender.

"You really can't read?"

"Of _course_ I can _read_ ," she snaps. "Just not as well as I can talk."

"Huh," I say, not really sure how to respond to that.

"What, how did _you_ decide you were gonna do this? Does District One think you have to be able to do math and use a holo pad and stuff to kill people? _That's_ why you're going to die," she adds.

"I was good at it," I say, shrugging. "I _am_ good at it. Even if the arena seems determined to prove me wrong."

"How come you instead of someone else, then?"

"I'm _better_ than everyone else."

She regards me for a long moment - seems to realize that she's momentarily forgotten about my wounds - and resumes unravelling the bandaged area stretching all the way up my mangled leg.

After a second of contemplative unravelling - I wince every time she applies even incremental pressure - she looks back up.

"Claudia would say you have an _attitude_."

" _Claudia's_ not my mentor."

"That sorta sentence is why she'd say it. How come you're not… doing other things? The smartest people don't go to the Games, I don't think, unless they _really_ want to. Marcus had a choice. He could have been a Peacekeeper, probably on track to be Head Peacekeeper pretty soon. That's the good job. I didn't have a choice. It's okay, because this is what I'm _good_ at, but… I bet you had a choice."

I have to think about that for a second - whether there was a moment I chose this.

But who would choose not to, in District 1? The best people are the volunteers, that's just… how it works. That's why we have more victors than any other district. That's why we're the best. The best people respond to the call of duty.

"I… must have," I say, thinking back. "But if you're… well… I could organize the shipment of fancy rugs to the Capitol. But that would be a waste. Because I'm better here. I can do more for the district, more for my family… here. I didn't make the choice, I volunteered for the life and I got chosen."

I think of the boy, whose name I can't even remember, who volunteered out of line and had his face blown out for his troubles.

"It's how things are done," I add.

She gives me a scrutinizing look, then begins layering disinfectant on the mess of angry red flesh where my leg should be.

"And I find it hard to believe that you're somehow the bottom of District Two's barrel, given that you've probably… _maybe_ saved my life," I continue.

"Claudia said I got as close to failing the intelligence tests as you can get without being culled," she says softly. "This healing stuff is just experience, because I'm always getting hurt. It's good practice, getting hurt."

"Uh, _no_ , it's not," I tell her. "Not to disparage any of this, but that's an insane attitude. I'm rightfully ashamed of having been torn up like this. I won't let it happen again."

"Your way is different than my way. We'll see who's district was right to put faith in them," she says.

"District Two really is crazy," I add, a little sourly.

"The district tributes say that about you guys from One, too, so… chisel calling the drill sharp."

"All that is ridiculous. Late-Games district tributes are always off on tangents about how we've forfeited our humanity - as though we woke up one morning and decided killing people was fine for no reason. It bothers me. They deny us agency and attribute us infinite agency at the same time. We're both a product of society and aberrations before it."

Cora nods thoughtfully, looking up again with a large dollop of ointment on her gloved hand.

"Yeah," she says, after a moment of contemplation. "I knew a few of those words."

I sigh. What did I expect, here?

"How could they get it?" she adds. "Our normals are different, and it's like, how am I gonna be anything but what I'm supposed to be? But at the same time, like, I'm not a robot, I just have a job. I get what you're saying, I think. You don't need to use that many words."

"That's pretty much what I was getting at, I guess," I say.

"Yeah. It sucks, though. But if you're a mountain, you don't think highly of the miner. And if you're a… fancy… gemstone … or something … you don't… sorry, I _literally_ have no idea what you do in One," she laughs.

"You're on the right track. Any sort of high-quality artisanal products you need actual skills for," I say. "My parents coordinate shipments of textiles, mostly rugs, that we make in the district. Nicer than the trash that comes off the machines in Eight."

She nods thoughtfully.

"That's cool. My parents were miners when I was born, but since then they've moved up a lot - now my mom supervises and my dad teaches. That's about as good as you can do for yourself if you didn't train. They wanted me to be… more. That was always important to them."

That faraway look again as she begins to bind the tattered flesh of my leg back together. Even though I can barely look at it, I have to admit, it looks better than it did hanging shredded from my leg after the mutt tried to rip the whole thing off in its death rolls. I'm not losing any more blood, and I'm not… I'm not going to die.

I've been trying to avoid thinking about it, but… sweating it out in the tent as Jewel paced frantically outside, with a little antibiotic and not much else slapped on my bleeding wounds, I thought it might be over for me.

I thought my death might be an ignoble one, bled out in a tent as my helpless partner stood guard. I thought I might suffer in my grave awaiting judgement, as I suffered beneath the sun. Pain brought back my fears that I've done too much evil to be fit for paradise.

I really am grateful. For the chance to do more, to do better. I don't want to be grateful for this, beholden to anyone, but I am.

The tight white lines of my finished dressing - smudged only a little with blood from Cora's gloves - look very professional for something performed on a beach in an arena.

"This _is_ a skill," I tell her, looking myself over appraisingly. "That's as close to a compliment as you're getting."

"I did my own dressings for years," she tells me, tucking in the tail end of the gauze and looking over her work proudly, still apparently lost in thought.

"Why?"

"No reason," she retorts hastily, back in the present moment. "Want some fruits? We have apples. I'll cut them up small."

"My arm is starting to feel better," I say. "No need. I'd prefer silverware."

She has already started slicing a small pink-yellow apple with her cruelly curved billhook machete.

"Are you going to go off the rails again?" I ask, picking up a piece of meat for myself as I watch her work. "You're not bad company when you're like this."

"You haven't seen off the rails," she says sadly.

"That's too bad," I tell her, accepting a slice of apple as she offers it to me from the tip of her machete.

My arm really is searing with pain, still, but already miles better than it was when I stumbled into camp last night. Parts of the muscle that felt torn nearly clean off have knitted back together, and though the effect is painful, it's almost to the point of being usable again. The ointment is amazing. I have to be careful to keep the large shirt balanced over myself, but I'm actually feeling a lot better, overall - cleaner, if not less in agony.

Tolerable. This is tolerable. And it's going to get better.

"Too bad for _you_ ," she finally replies, offering me another slice of apple and taking one for herself. "For what it's worth, _you're_ not as bad as I was expecting."

"Bad?" I scoff.

"Um, what's the word? Insufferable? Smug? Arrogant?"

"If _you're_ failing intelligence tests, I'd hate to go toe to toe with the rest of District Two," I laugh. "Ouch. Jewel always has such colorful expressions - I think she'd call that 'shitting on my life'."

"I wasn't _failing_ ," she argues, but there's a hint of a smile as she eats her apple slice. "Just close. How's Jewel going to like this, us getting along?"

"About as much as you're enjoying her romantic stroll in the woods with Marcus," I say drily.

She laughs.

"Maybe you've gotten the wrong idea there."

"You two looked cozy enough at our pre-Games party," I say skeptically.

"He's kind to me," she says. "Wouldn't you do anything for someone who was kind to you?"

"Clearly, no," I say, gesturing at my bandaged leg. "I'll still kill you."

"No, you won't," she argues, though she's still smiling on the tail end of her laughter at some joke I don't understand, "but because I'm stronger than you, not because you're all soft over someone treating you okay. Maybe you're used to people treating you like a person. _I'm_ not. It matters to me."

"So he walks back in, hand in hand with Jewel - which wouldn't be the first time I've seen that happen…" I push, raising an eyebrow.

"It'd hurt, but that's life. Hurting, always, all the time, and learning to do what you're supposed to anyway," she says. "But I also don't think that'll happen. I'm not very smart, but I trust my gut. What's left of it."

"Well, you don't have to worry about falling in love with _me_ ," I say amicably. "Because I fully intend to treat you as a dangerous nuisance who knows a thing or two about bandages and nothing else."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," she laughs. "Keep me around for the _next_ time you're half dead in a puddle of your own filth and blood."

"Too far. You want to help me get some pants on?" I suggest.

"What, you planning on being _useful_ if Samil runs in here swinging a bat?" she says mildly.

"I think I could distract him as-is with my pantslessness," I say with mock offense. "Jewel would suggest challenging him to a measuring contest. He wouldn't win."

It's almost strange to joke about someone whose name makes my vision red, but Cora has a kind of peculiar conversational presence that makes it strangely easy to say these kinds of things, to slip into her pattern of skating over the surface of serious topics. With Jewel, it feels like there's something on the line with everything I say, and I like that - I like being held accountable.

But this is… easy. A glimpse at a different world, where being a volunteer means… well, meeting a different kind of standard. Maybe it's just her. But she doesn't strike me as cruel. A big dog knocking things over in a china shop in its excitement to do its master's bidding. Leaving blood-red stains in her wake, yes, but...

"Ugh, I'd beat my _own_ head in on the Cornucopia if I could forget that sentence happened," she shoots back, though she throws me a pair of loose-fitting pants that look similar to the uniform in which we entered the arena and undergarments.

It's hard to imagine thinking the way she does, about anything. I've barely considered old lessons with Sequin and Finish - and occasionally, Allah have mercy, Corsage - since I've been in the arena. I have my own thoughts, informed by their teachings, but my own nonetheless. Her frequent reference to her own mentor is odd, to say the least.

The sun has finished setting, but the sky is an even more vivid set of colors - lurid red, cracked with gold, fading into a soft pink that swallows up the cavern of the sky. In the distance, more in the direction of the swamp forest, a thick mist seems to be rolling in, but it hasn't reached this part of the arena yet.

"Deaths today?" I ask as I wrestle with the pants, realizing I definitely wouldn't have been conscious to hear the cannons.

"Nope," she says thoughtfully, staring out at the sunset. "Marcus isn't back yet, though. They must not have found anyone. So it's a 'yet' thing."

"Busy day tomorrow," I sigh.

"Well, you'll be ready, if I have anything to say about it," she says cheerily.

It's good to know that I won't see Jewel's face in the sky once this bloody sunset ends. I miss the certainty and familiarity of her company. Questioning less, relying on her more, safely. Time apart reminds me how much I'm growing genuinely fond of her, very much in spite of myself.

That line of reflection also reminds me to be careful with Cora.

Scripture tells me that a truly common cause joins the hearts of even the most bitter of enemies, rendering them brethren by the grace of Allah - that they cannot be divided. I've always thought of that as a principle in support of district unity. That the unbreakable bond of common cause is shared by me and Jewel and no one else.

I don't think I recognize enough of me in Cora to worry about that particular adage holding true here. We don't share solidarity beyond our immediate circumstances. I don't understand where she's coming from, and I don't want to.

She has suffered.

And that's all I need to know. I want no part in her suffering. It's pure good fortune that she seems willing to take an active role in remedying my own. I'll enjoy that luck as long as it lasts.

In the mean time, I find my arm bends almost without making me flinch in agony. Another day and this will be behind me. Another day and I'll be whole, as I should be. Ready to serve once again.

"We should make some really good food for when they come back," Cora suggests, blissfully unaware of any thought beyond dinner plans. "Does Jewel have special foods she likes?"

I blink, trying both to refocus myself on the present moment and what I need to do and be within it and to remember what Jewel ate on the train, which escapes me completely.

"Can't think of anything," I say after a moment of thought.

"Then I'll make soup! I love soup," she says happily. "It _feels_ like love, coming home to soup."

"How would you know?"

She shrugs.

"It was the only thing my parents ever left out for me."

Of course. I sigh heavily. I'd call 'sob story', but she doesn't seem the slightest bit upset, moving on entirely from what she's just said in favor of shuffling onions, garlic, a few yams, a handful of apples, and a wilted stick of celery from one of the burlap bags in which the supplies were stored in the Cornucopia.

"Probably smart to try to use the more perishable stuff," she adds. "This heat and wet can't be good for it."

"Anything I can do to help?" I offer.

"Once you're pants-ed, grab a weapon and watch my back," she says with a smile. "Oh, and be ready to taste test. Do you like spicy?"

"I do."

"Perfect!"

She upends a bottle of red pepper flakes into the pot, enough to make even me wince.

"I know you got a whole complex about getting hurt, but I think getting knocked down a few pegs might be good for you," she suggests.

"Maybe so," I reply with a long sigh, resting for a second after suffering through the worst of the process of putting on one leg of the pants.

"Really," she says. "Today has been okay. You're not too bad when you're cut down to size a little."

"Compliment me as effusively as you like, you won't win me over," I grumble. "You drugged me for most of it. I'm serious about not doing that again."

She shrugs innocently.

"Maybe I just got the pills mixed up. Ever thought about that?"

"Don't play dumb," I laugh, exasperation with her seeping into my voice. "You're not doing yourself any favors. _I'm_ more tolerable when I'm not on my high horse, hm? _You're_ more tolerable when you're not acting like a confused eight year old coming down from a stimulant high. You're legitimately most palatable when you're threatening my life."

Something about what I've said makes her pause for a long second, looking up and scrutinizing my expression while continuing to slice a yam with her oversized knife.

"I'll keep that in mind," she replies.

For once, the tone of her voice carries the weight of someone I might roughly consider an equal.

The sun is completely set, now, darkening into night gradually. This is the most captivating part of the transition from day to night, I think - when the dark, satiny flesh of the sky is bruised with fading layers of muted red, gold, green and purple.

Cora is watching too, I realize, illuminated by firelight, staring out over the ocean along with me. She sits alarmingly close to the fire, even by the standards of what is necessary for cooking.

Darkness falls slowly over the Cornucopia as we wait in silence. I listen carefully for any disturbances in the noises of the evening, but the hum of life in the swamp forest bordering the large clearing remains consistent. In boredom, I start spinning my knife, balanced on the forefinger of my uninjured arm, with my thumb. Cora glances up to watch, but we're both distracted by the seal that appears in the sky, accompanied by the anthem booming overhead.

Day three - the first day with no deaths.

"I hope they get home soon," Cora says quietly, staring up at the sky as the Capitol's insignia fades.

"None of us are getting home for a long time," I reply, already back to spinning my knife.

The silence in the clearing folds back over us like a blanket, though the noises in the swamp forest only intensify as the night deepens. Cora's soup is beginning to smell like real food.

It will be a long time before I see my parents again. I haven't really been thinking about it, because that seems premature, and… _arrogant_ , even for me. But somewhere out there - I have no sense of where I am - maybe my parents are entertaining, as they often do during the Games. It must have hurt them so badly to see me injured, to bear the shame of my brush with failure and death.

Maybe it's been enough to bring Nayir back to earth, knock my flighty little brother back into place. Either this does it or my father will have to intervene, which he hasn't in a long time, since I've willingly adopted the mantle of 'moral enforcer' as the eldest. Not particularly effectively.

In a round-about way, I hope my path will be good for them. Though it's not the way I'd have chosen if given the option. I don't have options here. No father to turn to or copy of the holy book to consult.

My one un-bandaged hand, my knife, and my ridiculous ally with her soup, bandages, and violent dysfunction stand between me and the rest of the world.

When I win this thing, it's going to be damn impressive.

x

 _I know who's going to win, and it's preeeetty set at this point, but what happens in between and whose perspectives tell the story is at least a little malleable, sometimes by necessity. If you've got opinions, they're much appreciated and will more than likely be acted on._

 _Thanks for everyone reading - it warms my heart to see hit counts, though I do sort of assume y'all are just opening the page, screaming as your eyes boil out of your head, and closing it immediately._

 _Reviewing is cool and good and possibly revolutionary praxis._


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